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EVERYMAN’S LIBRARY
FICTION
X
FRAMLLY PARSONAGE
BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE
ANTHONY TROLLOPE, bom in i8i^, the
son of a barrister. Held important posi-
tion in the Post Office, 1841-66. Visited
America, Australia, South Africa, and New
Zealand. Died in 1882.
FRAMLEY PARSONAGE
ANTHONY TROI.LOl’B
LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO. INC.
Primed in Great Britain
by
Walcrlow & Sons Ltd. Dunstable
and bound at The Temple Press Lelchworth I lerts
for
J. M. Dent & Sons Ltd,
Aldine House Bedford St. London
First published in this edition i <>o6
Y 62/4 am
EDITOR’S NOTE
A LETTER from Thackeray to Anthony Trollope, and another
from Messrs. Smith Elder, proposing that he sliould write for
the new Corn kill Ma^,azine, were the immediate cause of the
writing of Framley Parsonage. Trollope was in Ireland at
the time — it was the year 1859 — and he hurried over to London
to discuss the opening thus afforded him; and having decided
to lay aside his Castle Richmond, he began to write the new story
in the railway train on the return journey two days later. “ I
had got int' my head.'' he tells us in his Autobiography, “an
idea of what 1 meant to w'rite — a morsel of the biography of an
I'-nglish clergyman who should not be a bad man, but one led
into temptation by his own youth and by the unclerical acci-
dents of the life of those around him." He saw at once the
advantage of placing Fr iniley Parsonage near Barchester; and
the real plot became at last, as he saVs, centred in the heroine's
refusal to marry her lover till his friends should agree to love
her too. It was an English novel, English in aroma, local
colour, character — everything in short; and greatly its English
readers liked it.
It may be convenient now to remind a later generation ot
readers that this was the fourth of the Barchester series. I'ho
bix novels the set comprises are:
Thk Warden,
Barchester Towers,
Doctor Thorne,
h'RAMLEY Parsonage,
The Small House at Alltngton, and
The Last Chronicle of Barset.
Trollope thought a good plot was unduly prized by the big
novel-reading public. His theory of the novel, as he has stated
it, perfectly accords with the plain prose epic of a clergyman
and his acquaintances narrated in Framley Parsonage:
“A novel should give a picture of common life enlivened by
humour and sweetened by pathos. To make that picture
worthy of attention the canvas should be crowded with real
portraits, not of individuals known to the world or to the author,
but of created personages impregnated with traits of character
which are known."
vii
Vlll
Editor’s Note
Anthony Trollope was born in London, at i6 Keppel Street,
Russell Square, on April 24th, 1815, and died on December 6th,
1882. 'J'he following is the list of his published works:
The Macdermots of Ballychrant 1847; The Kellys and the O^Kellys^ 1848;
La Vcndiey 1850; Ihe WurdeUy 1855; Harchester TowerSy 1857; The Three
Clerksy 1858; Doctor ThornCy 1858; The BeriramSy 1850; The West Indies and
the Spanish Main, 1859; Castle Richmondy i860; Framley Parsonaf^e, 1861;
Tales of All Countries y 1861; Orley Farnty 1862; North Americay 1862; The
Struggles of Brawny JoneSy and RobinsoHy U.S. ed., 1862 (English ed., 1870);
Tales of all Countries, 1863 ; Rachel Rav, 18G3 ; The Small House at A llingtoKy
1864 ; Can You Forgive Her?, 1864 ; Miss Mackenzie, 1865 ; Hunting Sketches,
1865; The Belton Estate, 1866; Travelling Sketches, 1866; Clergytnen of the
Church of England, 1866; Nina Balatka, 1867; The Last Chronicle of Bar set,
1867; The Coverings, 1867; Lotta Schmidt and Other Stones, 1867; Linda
Tressel, 1868; On Hunting, in British Sports and Pastimes, 1868; Phineas
Finn, the Irish Member, 1869; He Knew He was Right, 1869; Did He Stead
It?, 1869; The Vicar of Bullhampton, 1870; An Editor's Tales, 1870; The
Cofnnientartcs of Caesar, 1870; Christmas Day at Ktrkby Cottage, in Rout-
ledge's Christmas Annual, 1870; Sir Harry Hotspur of Humblethwaite, 1871;
Ralph the Heir, 1871; The Golden Lion of Granpere, 1872; The Eustace
Diamonds, 1873; Australia and Netv Zealand, 1873; Phineas Redux, 1874;
Lady Anna, 187-^ ; Harry Heathcoteof Gnngoil, 1874; The Way We Live Now,
1^75; The Prime Minister, 1876; The American Senator, 1877; Christmas at
'Thompson Hall, 1877; South Africa, 1878 (abridged and partly rewritten,
1879); Js He Popenjoyr, 1878; Iceland, 1878; How the Mastiffs" went to
Iceland, 1878; The Lady of La u nay, 1878; Catherine Carmichael or Three
Years Running, in the Christmas number of the Masonic Magazine, 1878;
An Eye for an Eye, 1879; Thackeray, 1879; John Caldigate, 1879; Cousin
Henry, 1870: The Duke*s Children, 1880; The Life of Cicero, 1880; Dr,
Worth's School, 1881 ; Whist at our Club, in Tales fiom “ Blackwood," vol. xii,
1881; Ayala's Angel, 1881; Why Frau Frohmann raised her Prices, and
Other Stones, 1882; The Fixed Period, 1882; Lord Palmerston, 1882; Marion
Fay, 1882; Kept in the Datk, 18S2; Tim Ileroines oj Plumpington, in the
Cliristnias number of Good Words, 1882; Mr. Scarborough's Family, 1883;
An Mitobwgraphy , 1883; The J^and leaguers, 1883; Old Man's Love, 1884;
Thompson Hull, 1885; The Noble Jilt, 1923; London Tradesmen (essays from
Pall Mall Gazelle), 1927.
Trollope coiitnliuted also to the following periodicals: Examiner, Dublin
( hiiversity Magazine, Cornhtll, St. James's Magazine, Athenaeum, Fortnightly
Review, Harper's Weekly, St. Paul's, Blackwood, The Nineteenth Century,
North American Review, Pall Mall Gazette, and Life, 1849-82.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGR
I. " OMNES OMNIA BONA DICERE ” . • . . I
II. THE FTIAMLEY SET, AND THE CHALDICOTES SET . 9
III. CHALDICOTES IQ
IV. A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE 3I
V. AMANTIUM IR^E AMORIS INTEGRATIO ... 39
VI. MR. JJAKO'.n smith’s LECTURE .... 52
VIT. SUNDAY MORNING 6l
VIII. GATHERUM CASTLE ...... 68
IX. THE vicar's return 84
X. LUCY ROBARTS 92
XI. GRISELDA GHANTLV 102
Xn. THE LIllLE BILL 1 I5
XIII. DELICATE HINTS . . . • • . .122
XIV. MR. CRAWLEY OF llOGGLESTOCK . • . .132
XV. LADY LUFTON'S AMBASSADOR . • . . I42
XVI. MRS. rODGENS' BABY I50
XVII. MRS. PROUDIE’s CONVERSAZIONE . . . . 161
XVIII. THE NEW minister’s PATRONAGE . . • I?*
XIX. MONEY DEALINGS 179
XX. HAROLD SMITH IN THE CABINET . • . . I9I
XXI. WHY PUCK, THE PONY, WAS BEATEN . • . 200
XXII. HOGGLESTOCK PARSONAGE 209
XXTII. THE TRIUMPH OF THE GIANTS , . . , 2 l 6
XXIV. MAGNA EST VERITAS ...... 227
XXV. NON-IMPULSIVK 239
XXVI. IMPULSIVE 248
XXVTI. SOUTH AUDLEY STREET . . • • • 259
XXVllI. DR. THORNE 267
XXIX. MISS DUNSTABLE AT HOME 274
XXX. THE GRANTLY TRIUMPH 292
* 181
IX
X
Contents
CHAP.
XXXI. SALMON FISHING IN NORWAY • • • •
XXXII. THE GOAT AND COMPASSES
XXXIII. CONSOLATION
XXXIV. LADY LUFTON IS TAKEN BY SURPRISE .
XXXV. THE STORY OF KING COPHETUA ....
XXXVI. KIDNAPPING AT HOGGLESTOCK ....
XXXVIl. MR. SOWERBY WITHOUT COMPANY
XXXVIII. IS THERE CAUSE OR JUST IMPEDIMENT?
XXXIX. HOW TO WRITE A LOVE LETTER ....
XL. INTERNECINE
XLI. DON QUIXOTE
XLII. TOUCHING PITCH
XLIII. IS SHE NOT INSIGNIFICANT?
XLIV. THE PHILISTINES AT THE PARSONAGE . .
XLV. PALACE BLESSINGS
XLVI. LADY LUFTON'S REQUEST
XLVII. NEMESIS
XLVIII. HOW THEY WERE ALL MARRIED. HAD TWO CHILDREN,
AND LIVED HAPPY EVER AFTER • • •
PAGE
296
3 II
318
325
334
344
354
363
373
383
393
403
412
422
433
441
453
461
FRAMLEY PARSONAGE
CHAPTER I
“OMNES OMNIA BONA DICERE ”
When young Mark Robarts was leaving college, his father
might well declare that all men began to say all good things
to him, and to extol his fortune in that he had a son blessed
with so excellent a disposition. This father was a physician
living at Exeter. He was a gentleman possessed of no private
means, but enjoying a lucrative practice, which had enabled
him to maintain and educate a family with all the advantages
which money can give in this country. Mark was his eldest
son and second child ; and the first page or two of this
narrative must be consumed in giving a catalogue of the good
things which chance and conduct together had heaped upon
this young man’s head.
His first step forward in life had arisen from his having been
sent, while still very young, as a private pupil to the house of a
clergyman, who was an old friend and intimate friend of his
father’s. This clergyman had one other, and only one other,
pupil — the young Lord Lufton; and between the two boys,
there had sprung up a close alliance. While they were both
so placed, I^dyi Lufton had visited her son, and then invited
young Robarts to pass his next holidays at Framley Court.
This visit was made ; and it ended in Mark going back to
Exeter with a letter full of praise from the widowed peeress.
She had been delighted, she said, in having such a companion
for her son, and expressed a hope that the boys might remain
together during the course of their education. Dr. Robarts was
a man who thought much of the breath of peers and peeresses,
and was by no means inclined to throw away any advantage
which might arise to his child from such a friendship. When,
therefore, the young lord was sent to Harrow, Mark Robarts
went there also.
That the lord and his friend often quarrelled, and occasionally
I
2 Framley Parsonage
fought, — ^the fact even that for one period of three months they
never spoke to each other — ^by no means interfered with the
doctor’s hopes. Mark again and again stayed a fortnight at
Framley Court, and Lady Lufton always wrote about him in
the highest terms. And then the lads went together to Ox-
ford, and here Mark’s good fortune followed him, consisting
rather in the highly respectable manner in which he lived, than
in any wonderful career of collegiate success. His family was
proud of him, and the doctor was always ready to talk of him
to his patients ; not because he was a prizeman, and had gotten
medals and scholarships, but on account of the excellence of
his general conduct. He lived with the best set — he incurred
no debts — he was fond of society, but able to avoid low society
— liked his glass of wine, but was never known to be drunk ;
and above all things, was one of the most popular men in the
university. Then came the question of a profession for this
young Hyperion, and on this subject, Dr. Robarts was invited
himself to go over to Framley Court to discuss the matter with
Lady Lufton. Dr. Robarts returned with a very strong
conception that the Church was the profession best suited to
his son.
Lady Lufton had not sent for Dr. Robarts all the way from
Exeter for nothing. The living of Framley was in the gift of
the Lufton family, and the next presentation would be in Lady
Lufton’s hands, if it should fall vacant before the young lord
was twenty-five years of age, and in the young lord’s hands if it
should fall afterwards. But the mother and the heir consented
to give a joint promise to Dr. Robarts. Now, as the present
incumbent was over seventy, and as the living was worth 900/.
a year, there could be no doubt as to the eligibility of the
clerical profession. And I must further say, that the dowager
and the doctor were justified in their choice by the life and
principles of the young man — ^as far as any father can be
justified in choosing such a profession for his son, and as far
as any lay impropriator can be justified in making such a
promise. Had Lady Lufton had a second son, that second
son would probably have had the living, and no one would
have thought it wrong ; — certainly not if that second son had
been such a one as Mark Robarts.
Lady Lufton herself was a woman who thought much on
religious matters, and would by no means have ^en disposed
to place any one in a living, merely because such a one had
been her son’s friend. Her tendencies were High Church,
and khe was enabled to perceive that those of young Mark
“Omnes Omnia Bona Dicere” 3
Robarts ran in the same direction. She was very desirous
that her son should make an associate of his clergyman, and
by this step she would insure, at any rate, that. She was
anxious that the parish vicar should 1:^ one with whom she
could herself fully co-operate, and was perhaps unconsciously
wishful that he might in some measure be subject to her
influence. Should she appoint an elder man, this might
probably not be the case to the same extent ; and should her
son have the gift, it might probably not be the case at all.
And, therefore, it was resolved that the living should be given
to young Robarts.
He took his degree — not with any brilliancy, but quite in
the manner that his father desired ; he then travelled for eight
or ten months with Lord Lufton and a college don, and almost
immediately after his return home was ordained.
The livinc; cf Framley is in the diocese of Barchester ; and,
seeing what were Mark’s hopes with reference to that diocese,
it was by no means difficult to get him a curacy within it. But
this curacy he was not allowed long to fill. He had not been
in it above a twelvemonth, when poor old Dr. Stopford, the
then vicar of Framley, was gathered to his fathers, and the full
fruition of his rich hopes fell upon his shoulders.
But even yet more must be told of his good fortune before
we can come to the actual incidents of our story. Lady
Lufton, who, as I have said, thought much of clerical matters,
did not carry her High Church principles so far as to advocate
celibacy for the clergy. On the contrary, she had an idea that
a man could not be a good parish parson without a wife. So,
having given to her favourite a position in the world, and an
income sufficient for a gentleman’s wants, she set herself to
work to find him a partner in those blessings. And here also,
as in other matters, he fell in with the views of his patroness —
not, however, that they were declared to him in that marked
manner in which the affair of the living had been broached.
Lady Lufton was much too highly gifted with woman’s craft
for that. She never told the young vicar that Miss Monsell
accompanied her ladyship’s married daughter to Framley Court
expressly that he, Mark, might fall in love with her ; but such
was in truth the case.
Lady Lufton had but two children. The eldest, a daughter,
had been married some four or five years to Sir George
Meredith, and this Miss Monsell was a dear friend of hers.
And now looms before me the novelist’s great difficulty.
Miss Monsell— or, rather, Mrs. Mark Robarts — must be
4 Framley Parsonage
described. As Miss Monsell, our tale will have to take no
prolonged note of her. And yet we will call her Fanny
Monsell, when we declare that she was one of the pleasantest
companions that could be brought near to a man, as the
future partner of his home, and owner of his heart. And if
high principles without asperity, female gentleness without
weakness, a love of laughter without malice, and a true loving
heart, can qualify a woman to be a parson’s wife, then was
Fanny Monsell qualified to fill that station. In person she was
somewhat larger than common. Her face would have been
beautiful but that her mouth was large. Her hair, which was
copious, was of a bright brown ; her eyes also were brown, and,
being so, were the distinctive feature of her face, for brown eyes
are not common. They were liquid, large, and full either
of tenderness or of mirth. Mark Robarts still had his ac-
customed luck, when such a girl as this was brought to
Framley for his wooing. And he did woo her — and won her.
For Mark himself was a handsome fellow. At this time the
vicar was about twenty-five years of age, and the future
Mrs. Robarts was two or three years younger. Nor did she
come quite empty-handed to the vicarage. It cannot be said
that Fanny Monsell vras an heiress, but she had been left with
a provision of some few thousand pounds. This was so
settled, that the interest of his wife’s money paid the heavy
insurance ion his life which young Robarts effected, and there ,
was left to him, over and above, sufficient to furnish his
parsonage in the very best style of clerical comfort, and to start
him on the road of life rejoicing.
So much did Lady Lufton do for her protigi^ and it may
well be imagined that the Devonshire physician, sitting
meditative over his parlour fire, looking back, as men will
look back on the upshot of their life, was well contented with
that upshot, as regarded his eldest offshoot, the Rev. Mark
Robarts, the vicar of Framley.
But little has as yet been said, personally, as to our hero
himself, and perhaps it may not be necessary to say much.
Let us hope that by degrees he may come forth upon
the canvas, showing to the beholder the nature of the man
inwardly and outwardly. Here it may suffice to say that he
was no born heaven’s cherub, neither was he a born fallen
devil’s spirit. Such as his training made him, such he was.
He had la^ge capabilities for good — and aptitudes also for
evil, quite enough : quite enough to make it needful that he
should repel temptation as temptation only can be repelled.
**Omnes Omnia Bona Dicere** 5
Much had been done to spoil him, but in the ordinary
acceptation of the word he was not spoiled. He had too
much tact, too much common sense, to believe himself to be
the paragon which his mother thought him. Self-conceit was
not, perhaps, his greatest danger. Had he possessed more
of it, he might have been a less agreeable man, but his course
before him might on that account have been the safer. In
person he was manly, tall, and fair-haired, with a square
forehead, denoting intelligence rather than thought, with clear
white hands, filbert nails, and a power of dressing himself in
such a manner that no one should ever observe of him that his
clothes were either good or bad, shabby or smart.
Such was Mark Robarts when, at the age of twenty-five, or
a little more, he married Fanny Monsell. The marriage was
celebrated in his own church, for Miss Monsell had no home
of her own, and had been staying for the last three months
at Framley Court. She was given away by Sir George
Meredith, and Lady Lufton herself saw that the wedding was
what it should be, with almost as much care as she had
bestowed on that of her own daughter. The deed of marrying,
the absolute tying of the knot, was performed by the Very
Reverend the Dean of Barchester, an esteemed friend of
Lady Lufton’s. And Mrs. Arabin, the dean’s wife, was of the
party, though the distance from Barchester to Framley is
long, and the roads deep, and no railway lends its assistance.
And Lord Lufton was there of course ; and people protested
that he would surely fall in love with one of the four beautiful
bridesmaids, of whom Blanche Robarts, the vicar’s second
sister, was by common acknowledgment by far the most
beautiful. And there was there another and a younger sister
of Mark’s — who did not officiate at the ceremony, though she
was present — and of whom no prediction was made, seeing
that she was then only sixteen, but of whom mention is made
here, as it will come to pass that my readers will know her
hereafter. Her name was Lucy Robarts. And then the
vicar and his wife went off on their wedding tour, the old
curate taking care of the Framley souls the while. And in
due time they returned ; and after a further interval, in due
course a child was born to them ; and then another ; and after
that came the period at which we will begin our story. But
before doing so, may I not assert that all men were right in
saying all manner of good things to the Devonshire physician,
and in praising his luck in having such a son ?
“ You were up at the house to-day, I suppose ? ” said Mark
6 Framley Parsonage
to his wife, as he sat stretching himself in an easy chair in
the drawing-room, before the fire, previously to his dressing
for dinner. It was a November evening, and he had been out
all day, and on such occasions the aptitude for delay in dressing
is very powerful. A strong-minded man goes direct from the
hall door to his chamber without encountering the temptation
of the drawing-room fire.
No ; but Lady Lufton was down here.”
•• Full of arguments in favour of Sarah Thompson ? "
“ Exactly so, Mark.”
“ And what did you say about Sarah Thompson ? ”
“ Very little as coming from myself : but I did hint that you
thought, or that I thought that you thought, that one of the
regular trained schoolmistresses would be better.”
“ But her ladyship did not agree ?”
“ Well, I won’t exactly say that ; — though I think that
perhaps she did not.”
1 am sure she did not. When she has a point to carry,
she is very fond of carrying it.”
“ But then, Mark, her points are generally so good.”
“ But, you see, in this affair of the school she is thinking
more of her protigie than she does of the children.”
“ Tell her that, and I am sure she will give way.” And
then again they were both silent. And the vicar having
thoroughlj warmed himself, as far as this might be done by
facing the fire, turned round and began the operation i tergo,
“ Come, Mark, it is twenty minutes past six. Will you go
and dress ? ”
“ I’ll tell you what, Fanny : she must have her way about
Sarah Thompson, You can see her to-morrow and tell
her so.”
“ I am sure, Mark, I would not give way, if I thought it
wrong. Nor would she expect it.”
“ If I persist this time, I shall certainly have to yield the
next ; and then the next may probably be more important.”
“ But if it*s wrong, Mark ? ”
“ I didn’t say it was wrong. Besides, if it is wrong, wrong
in some infinitesimal degree, one must put up with it. Sarah
Thompson is very respectable ; the only question is whether
she can teach.”
The young wife, though she did not say so, had some idea
that her husband was in error. It is true that one must put
up with wrong, with a great deal of wrong. But no one need
put up with wrong that he can remedy. Why should he, the
“Omnes Omnia Bona Dicere” 7
vicar, consent to receive an incompetent teacher for the pariih
children, when he was able to procure one that was competent ?
In such a case — so thought Mrs. Robarts to herself — she
firould have fought the matter out with Lady Lufton. On the
next morning, however, she did as she was bid, and signified
to the dowager that all objection to Sarah Thompson would
be withdrawn.
“ Ah ! 1 was sure he would agree with me,” said her lady-
ship, “ when he learned what sort of person she is. I know I
had only to explain;” — and then she plumed her feathers,
and was very gracious ; for to tell the truth, I-ady Lufton did
not like to be opposed in things which concerned the parish
nearly.
“ And, Fanny,” said Lady Lufton, in her kindest manner,
“ you are not going anywhere on Saturday, are you ? ”
“No, I think not.”
“Then you must come to us. Justinia is to be here, you
know” — Lady Meredith was named Justinia — “and you and
Mr. Robarts had better stay with us till Monday. He can
have the little book-room all to himself on Sunday. The
Merediths go on Monday ; and Justinia won't be happy if you
are not with her.” It would be unjust to say that Lady
Lufton had determined not to invite the Robartses if she were
not allowed to have her own way about Sarah Thompson.
But such would have been the result. As it was, however,
she was all kindness; and when Mrs. Robarts made some
little excuse, saying that she was afraid she must return home
in the evening, because of the children. Lady Lufton declared
that there was room enough at Framley Court for baby and
nurse, and so settled the matter in her own way, with a couple
of nods and three taps of her umbrella. This was on a
Tuesday morning, and on the same evening, before dinner,
the vicar again seated himself in the same chair before the
drawing-room fire, as soon as he had seen his horse led into
the stable.
“Mark,” said his wife, “the Merediths are to be at Framley
on Saturday and Sunday ; and 1 have promised that we will
go up and stay over till Monday.”
“ You don't mean it ! Goodness gracious, how pro-
voking ! ”
“ Why ? I thought you wouldn’t mind it. And Justinia
would think it unkind if 1 were not there.”
“ You can go, my dear, and of course will go. But as for
me, it is impossible.”
8 Framley Parsonage
“ But why, love ? "
“Why ? Just now, at the school-house, I answered a letter
that was brought to me from Chaldicotes. Sowerby insists on
my going over there for a week or so ; and 1 have said that 1
would.”
“ Go to Chaldicotes for a week, Mark ? ”
“ I believe I have even consented to ten days.”
“ And be away two Sundays ?”
“ No, Fanny, only one. Don't be so censorious.”
“ Don't call me censorious, Mark ; you know I am not so.
But I am so sorry. It is just what Lady Lufton won’t like.
Besides, you were away in Scotland two Sundays last month.”
“ In September, Fanny. And that is being censorious.'’
“Oh, but, Mark, dear Mark; don’t say so. You know I
don’t mean it. But Lady Lufton does not like those
Chaldicotes people. You know Lord Lufton was with you the
last time you were there ; and how annoyed she was ! ”
“Lord Lufton won’t be with me now, for he is still in
Scotland. And the reason why I am going is this : Harold
Smith and his wife will be there, and I am very anxious to
know more of them. I have no doubt that Harold Smith will
be in the government some day, and I cannot afford to neglect
such a man’s acquaintance.”
“ But, Mark, what do you want of any government ? ”
“ Well,^ Fanny, of course I am bound to say that I want
nothing ; " neither in one sense do I ; but, nevertheless, I
shall go and meet the Harold Smiths.”
“ Could you not be back before Sunday ? ”
“ I have promised to preach at Chaldicotes. Harold Smith
is going to lecture at Barchester, about the Australasian
archipelago, and 1 am to preach a charity sermon on the
same subject. They want to send out more missionaries.”
“ A charity sermon at Chaldicotes ! ”
“ And why not ? The house will be quite full, you know ;
and I dare say the Arabins will be there.”
“ I think not ; Mrs. Arabin may get on with Mrs. Harold
Smith, though I doubt that ; but I’m sure she’s not fond of
Mrs. Smith's brother. I don’t think she would stay at
Chaldicotes.”
“ And the bishop will probably be there for a day or two.”
“That is much more likely, Mark. If the pleasure of
meeting Mrs. Proudie is taking you to Chaldicotes, I have
not a word more to say.”
“ I am not a bit more fond of Mrs. Proudie than you are.
The Framley and Chaldicotes Sets 9
Fanny,” said the vicar, with something like vexation in the
tone of his voice, for he thought that his wife was hard upon
him. “But it is generally thought that a parish clergyman
does well to meet his bishop now and then. And as I was
invited there, especially to preach while all these people are
staying at the place, I could not well refuse.” And then he
got up, and taking his candlestick, escaped to his dressing-
room.
“ But what am I to say to Lady Lufton ? ” his wife said to
him, in the course of the evening.
“ Just write her a note, and tell her that you find I had
promised to preach at Chaldicotes next Sunday. Vou’ll go
of course ? ”
“Yes: but I know she’ll be annoyed. You were away
the last time she had people there.”
“ It can’t be helped. She must put it down against Sarah
Thompson. She ought not to expect to win always.”
“ I should not have minded it, if she had lost, as you call
it, about Sarah Thompson. That was a case in which you
ought to have had your own way.”
“ And this other is a case in which I shall have it. It’s a
pity that there should be such a difference ; isn’t it ? ”
Then the wife perceived that, vexed as she was, it would
be better that she should say nothing further ; and before she
went to bed, she wrote the note to Lady Lufton, as her
husband recommended.
CHAPTER II
THE FRAMLEY SET, AND THE CHALDICOTES SET
It will be necessary that I should say a word or two of
some of the people named in the few preceding pages, and
also of the localities in which they liv^. Of Lady Lufton
herself enough, perhaps, has been written to introduce her to
my readers. The Framley property belonged to her son ; but
as Lufton Park — an ancient ramshackle place in another
county — had heretofore been the family residence of the
Lufton family, Framley Court had been apportioned to her
for her residence for life. Lord Lufton himself was still
unmarried ; and as he had no establishment at Lufton Park —
whi^ indeed had not been inhabited since his grandfather
lo Framley Parsonage
died — he lived with his mother when it suited him to live
anywhere in that neighbourhood. The widow would fain
have seen more of him than he allowed her to do. He had
a shooting lodge in Scotland, and apartments in London, and
a string of horses in Leicestershire — much to the disgust of
the county gentry around him, who held that their own
hunting was as good as any that England could afford. His
lordship, however, paid his subscription to the East Barset-
shire pack, and then thought himself at liberty to follow his
own pleasure as to his own amusement.
Framley itself was a pleasant country place, having about
it nothing of seignorial dignity or grandeur, but possessing
everything necessary for the comfort of country life. The
house was a low building of two stories, built at different
periods, and devoid of all pretensions to any style of archi-
tecture ; but the rooms, though not lofty, were warm and
comfortable, and the gardens were trim and neat beyond all
others in the county. Indeed, it was for its gardens only that
Framley Court was celebrated. Village there was none,
properly speaking. The high road went winding about
through the Framley paddocks, shrubberies, and wood-skirted
home fields, for a mile and a half, not two hundred yards of
which ran in a straight line ; and there was a cross-road which
passed down through the domain, vrhereby there came to be
a locality, called Framley Cross. Here stood the “ Lufton
Arms,” and here, at Framley Cross, the hounds occasionally
would meet ; for the Framley woods were drawn in spite of
the young lord’s truant disposition ; and then, at the Cross
also, lived the shoemaker, who kept the post-office.
Framley church was distant from this just a quarter of a
mile, and stood immediately opposite to the chief entrance to
Framley Court. It was but a mean, ugly building, having
been erected about a hundred years since, when all churches
then built were made to be mean and ugly ; nor was it large
enough for the congregation, some of whom were thus driven
to the dissenting chapels, the Sions and Ebenezers, which had
got themselves established on each side of the parish, in
putting down which Lady Lufton thought that her pet parson
was hardly as energetic as he might be. It was, therefore,
a matter near to Lady Lufton’s heart to see a new church
built, and she was urgent in her eloquence both with her son
and with the vicar, to have this good work commenced.
Beyond the church, but close to it, were the boys’ school
and girls’ school, two distinct buildings, which owed their
The Framley and Chaldicotes Sets ii
erection to Lady Lufton’s energy; then came a neat little
grocer’s shop, the neat grocer being the clerk and sexton, and
the neat grocer’s wife, the pew-opener in the church. Podgens
was their name, and they were great favourites with her lady-
ship, both having been servants up at the house. And here
the road took a sudden turn to the left, turning, as it were,
away from Framley Court ; and just beyond the turn was the
vicarage, so that there was a little garden path running from
the back of the vicarage grounds into the churchyard, cutting
the Podgens off into an isolated corner of their own ; — from
whence, to tell the truth, the vicar would have been glad to
banish them and their cabbages, could he have had the
power to do so. For has not the small vineyard of Naboth
been always an eyesore to neighbouring potentates ?
The potentate in this case had as little excuse as Ahab, for
nothing in the parsonage way could be more perfect than his
parsonage. It had all the details requisite for the house of a
moderate gentleman with moderate means, and none of those
expensive superfluities which immoderate gentlemen demand,
or which themselves demand immoderate means. And then
the gardens and paddocks were exactly suited to it ; and every-
thing was in good order ; — not exactly new, so as to be raw
and uncovered, and redolent of workmen ; but just at that era
of their existence in which newness gives way to comfortable
homeliness.
Other village at Framley there was none. At the back of
the Court, up one of those cross-roads, there was another
small shop or two, and there was a very neat cottage residence,
in which lived the widow of a former curate, another protigi
of Lady Lufton’s ; and there was a big, staring, brick house,
in which the present curate lived ; but this was a full mile
distant from the church, and farther from Framley Court,
standing on that cross-road which runs from Framley Cross in
a direction away from the mansion. This gentleman, the
Rev. Evan Jones, might, from his age, have been the vicar’s
father ; but he had been for many years curate of Framley ;
and though he was personally disliked by Lady Lufton, as
being Low Church in his principles, and unsightly in his
appearance, nevertheless, she would not urge his removal.
He had two or three pupils in that large brick house, and, if
turned out from these and from his curacy, might find it
difficult to establish himself elsewhere. On this account
mercy was extended to the Rev. E. Jones, and, in spite of his
red ,^ce and awkward big feet, he was invited to dine at
12 Framley Parsonage
Framley Courti with his plain daughter, once in eveiy three
months.
Over and above these, there was hardly a house in the parish
of Framley. outside the bounds of Framley Court, except
those of farmers and farm labourers ; and yet the parish was
of large extent.
Framley is in the eastern division of the county of Barset-
shire, which, as all the world knows, is. politically speaking, as
true blue a county as any in England. There have been back-
slidings even here, it is true ; but then, in what county have
there not been such backslidings ? Where, in these pinchbeck
days, can we hope to find the old agricultural virtue in all its
purity ? But, among those backsliders, 1 regret to say, that
men now reckon Lord Lufton. Not that he is a violent Whig,
or perhaps that he is a Whig at all. But he jeers and sneers at
the old county doings ; declares, when solicited on the subject,
that, as far as he is concerned, Mr. Bright may sit for the
county, if he pleases ; and alleges, that being unfortunately a
peer, he has no right even to interest himself in the question.
All this is deeply regretted, for, in the old days, there was no
portion of the county more decidedly true blue than that
Framley district; and, indeed, up to the present day, the
dowager is able to give an occasion^ helping hand.
Chaldicotes is the seat of Nathaniel Sowerby, Esq., who, at
the moment supposed to be now present, is one of the
members for the Western Division of Barsetshire. But this
Western Division can boast none of the fine political
attributes which grace its twin brother. It is decidedly Whig,
and is almost governed in its politics by one or two great Whig
families. It has been said that Mark Roharts was about to
pay a visit to Chaldicotes. and it has been hinted that his wife
would have been as well pleased had this not been the case.
Such was certainly the fact ; for she, dear, prudent, excellent
wife as she w^ knew that Mr. Sowerby was not the most
eligible friend in the world for a young clergyman, and knew,
also, that there was but one other house in the whole county
the name of which was so distasteful to Lady Lufton. The
reasons for this were, I may say, manifold. In the first place,
Mr. Sowerby was a Whig, and was seated in Parliament mainly
by the interest of that great Whig autocrat the Duke of
Omnium, whose residence was more dangerous even than that
of Mr. Sowerby, and whom Lady Lufton regarded as an
impersonation of Lucifer upon earth. Mr. Sowerby, too. was
unmarried — as indeed, also, was Lord Lufton, much to his
The Framley and Chaldicotes Sets 13
mother’s grief. Mr. Sowerby, it is true, was fifty, whereas the
young lord was as yet only twenty-six, but, nevertheless, her
ladyship was becoming anxious on the subject. In her mind
every man was bound to marry as soon as he could maintain a
wife ; and she held an idea — a. quite private tenet, of which
she was herself but imperfectly conscious — that men in general
were inclined to neglect this duty for their own selfish gratifica-
tions, that the wicked ones encouraged the more innocent in
this neglect, and that many would not marry at all, were not
an unseen coercion exercised against them by the other sex.
The Duke of Omnium was the very head of all such sinners,
and Lady Lufton greatly feared that her son might be
made subject to the baneful Omnium influence, by means
of Mr. Sowerby and Chaldicotes. And then Mr. Sowerby
was known to be a very poor man, with a very large estate.
He had wasted, men said, much on electioneering, and more
in gambling. A considerable portion of his property had
already gone into the hands of the duke, who, as a rule, bought
up everything around him that was to be purchased. Indeed
it was said of him by his enemies, that so covetous was he of
Barsetshire property, that he would lead a young neighbour on
to his ruin, in order that he might get his land. What — oh !
what if he should come to be possessed in this way of any of
the fair acres of Framley Court ? What if he should become
possessed of them all ? It can hardly be wondered at that
Lady Lufton should not like Chaldicotes.
The Chaldicotes set, as Lady Lufton called them, were in
every way opposed to what a set should be according to her
ideas. She liked cheerful, quiet, well-to-do people, who loved
their Church, their country, and their Queen, and who were
not too anxious to make a noise in the world. She desired
that all the farmers round her should be able to pay their rents
without trouble, that all the old women should have warm
flannel petticoats, that the working men should be saved from
rheumatism by healthy food and dry houses, that they should
all be obedient to their pastors and masters — temporal as well
as spiritual. That was her idea of loving her country. She
desired also that the copses should be full of pheasants, the
stubble-field of partridges, and the gorse covers of foxes ; in
that way, also, she loved her country. She had ardently
longed, during that Crimean war, that the Russians might
be beaten — but not by the French, to the exclusion of the
English, as had seemed to her to be too much the case ; and
hardly by the English under the dictatorship of Lord Palmerston.
14 Framley Parsonage
Indeed, she had had but little faith in that war after Lord
Aberdeen had been expelled. If, indeed, Lord Derby could
have come in ! But now as to this Chaldicotes set. After
all, there was nothing so very dangerous about them ; for it
was in London, not in the country, that Mr. Sowerby indulged,
if he did indulge, his bachelor mal-practices. Speaking of
them as a set, the chief offender was Mr. Harold Smith, or
perhaps his wife. He also was a member of Parliament, and,
as many thought, a rising man. His father had been foi many
years a debater in the House, and had held high office. Harold,
in early life, had intended himself for the cabinet ; and if work-
ing hard at his trade could ensure success, he ought to obtain
it sooner or later. He had already filled more than one sub-
ordinate station, had been at the Treasury, and for a month or
two at the Admiralty, astonishing official mankind by his
diligence. Those last-named few months had been under
Lord Aberdeen, with whom he had been forced to retire. He
was a younger son, and not possessed of any large fortune»
Politics, as a profession, was, therefore, of importance to him.
He had in early life married a sister of Mr. Sowerby ; and as
the lady was some six or seven years older than himself, and
had brought with her but a scanty dowry, people thought that
in this matter Mr. Harold Smith had not been perspicacious.
Mr. Harold Smith was not personally a popular man with any
party, though some judged him to be eminently useful. He
was laborious, well-informed, and, on the whole, honest ; but
he was conceited, long-winded, and pompous.
Mrs. Harold Smith was the very opposite of her lord. She
was a clever, bright woman, good-looking for her time of life —
and she was now over forty — with a keen sense of the value of
all worldly things, and a keen relish for all the world’s pleasures.
She was neither laborious, nor well-informed, nor perhaps
altogether honest — what woman ever understood the necessity
or recognized the advantage of political honesty? — but then
she was neither dull nor pompous, and if she was conceited,
she did not show it. She was a disappointed woman, as
regards her husband ; seeing that she had married him on the
speculation that he would at once become politically important ;
and as yet Mr. Smith had not quite fulfilled the prophecies of
his early life.
And Lady Lufton, when she spoke of the Chaldicotes set,
distinctly included, in her own mind, the Bishop of Barchester,
and his wife and daughter. Seeing that Bishop Proudie was,
of course, a man much addicted to religion and to religious
The Framley and Chaldicotes Sets 15
thinking, and that Mr. Sowerby himself had no peculiar
religious sentiments whatever, there would not at first sight
appear to be ground for much intercourse, and perhaps there
was not much of such intercourse ; but Mrs. Proudie and Mrs.
Harold Smith were firm friends of four or five years’ standing —
ever since the Proudies came into the diocese ; and therefore
the bishop was usually taken to Chaldicotes whenever Mrs.
Smith paid her brother a visit. Now Bishop Proudie waS by
no means a High Church dignitary, and Lady Lufton had
never forgiven him for coming into that diocese. She had,
instinctively, a high respect for the e()iscopal office ; but of
Bishop Proudie himself she hardly thought better than she
did of Mr, Sowerby, or of that fabricator of evil, the Duke of
Omnium. Whenever Mr. Robarts would plead that in going
anywhere he would have the benefit of meeting the bishop.
Lady Lufton would slightly curl her upper lip. She could not
say in words that Bishop Proudie — bishop as he certainly must
be called — was no better than he ought to be ; but by that
curl of her lip she did explain to those who knew her that such
was the inner feeling of her heart.
And then it was understood — Mark Robarts, at least, had so
heard, and the information soon reached Framley Court — that
Mr. Supplehouse was to make one of the Chaldicotes party.
Now Mr. Supplehouse was a worse companion for a gentle-
manlike, young, High Church, conservative county parson than
even Harold Smith. He also was in Parliament, and had been
extolled during the early days of that Russian war by some
portion of the metropolitan daily press, as the only man who
could save the country. Let him be in the ministry, the Jupiter
had said, and there would be some hope of reform, some
chance that England’s ancient glory would not be allowed in
these perilous times to go headlong to oblivion. And upon
this the ministry, not anticipating much salvation from Mr.
Supplehouse, but willing, as they usually are, to have the
Jupiter at their back, did send for that gentleman, and gave
him some footing among them. But how can a man born to
save a nation, and to lead a people, be content to fill the chair
of an under-secretary? Supplehouse was not content, and
soon gave it to be understood that his place was much higher
than any yet tendered to him. The seals of high office, or war
to the knife, was the alternative which he offered to a much-
belaboured Head of Affairs — nothing doubting that the Head
of Affairs would recognize the claimant’s value, and would have
before his eyes a wholesome fear of the Jupiter, But the Head
1 6 Framley Parsonage
of Affairs, much belaboured as he was, knew that he might pay
too high even for Mr. Supplehouse and the Jupiter \ and the
saviour of the nation was told that he might swing his toma-
hawk. Since that time he had been swinging his tomahawk,
but not with so much effect as had been anticipated. He also
was very intimate with Mr. Sowerby, and was decidedly one of
the Chaldicotes set. And there were many others included in
the stigma whose sins were political or religious rather than
moral. But they were gall and wormwood to Lady Luftcn,
who regarded them as children of the Lost One, and who
grieved with a mother’s grief when she knew that her son was
among them, and felt all a patron’s anger when she heard that
her clerical protkgi was about to seek such society. Mrs.
Robarts might well say that Lady Lufton would be annoyed.
You won’t call at the house before you go, will you ? ” the
wife asked on the following morning. He was to start after
lunch on that day, driving himself in his own gig, so as to
reach Chaldicotes, some twenty-four miles distant, before
dinner.
“ No, I think not. What good should I do ? "
** Well, I can’t explain ; but I think I should call : partly,
perhaps, to show her that, as I had determined to go, I was
not afraid of telling her so.”
** Afraid 1 That’s nonsense, Fanny. I’m not afraid of her.
But I don’t see why I should bring down upon myself the dis-
agreeable things she will say. Besides, 1 have not time. I
must walk up and see Jones about the duties ; and then, what
with getting ready, I shall have enough to do to get off in
time.”
He paid his visit to Mr. Jones, the curate, feeling no
qualms of conscience there, as he rather boasted of all the
members of Parliament he was going to meet, and of the bishop
who would be with them. Mr. Evan Jones was only his
curate, and in speaking to him on the matter he could talk as
though it were quite the proper thing for a vicar to meet his
bishop at the house of a county member. And one would be
inclined to say that it was proper : only why could he not talk
of it in the same tone to Lady Lufton ? And then, having
kissed his wife and children, he drove off, well pleased with
his prospect for the coming ten days, but already anticipating
some discomfort on his return.
On the three following days, Mrs. Robarts did not meet her
ladyship. She did not exactly take any steps to avoid such a
meetingi but she did not purposely go up to the big house.
The Framley and Chaldicotes Sets 17
She went to her school as usual, and made one or two calls
among the farmers’ wives, but put no foot within the Framley
Court grounds. She was braver than her husband, but even
she did not wish to anticipate the evil day. On the Saturday,
just before it began to get dusk, when she was thinking of pre-
paring for the fatal plunge, her friend. Lady Meredith, came to
her.
** So, Fanny, we shall again be so unfortunate as to miss Mr.
Robarts,” said her ladyship.
“Yes. Did you ever know anything so unlucky? But he
had promised Mr. Sowerby before he heard that you were
coming. Pray do not think that he would have gone away
had he known it.”
“ We should have been sorry to keep him from so much
more amusing a party.”
“ Now, Justinia, you are unfair. You intend to imply that
he has gone to Chaldicotes, because he likes it better than
Framley Court ; but that is not the case. 1 hope Lady Lufton
does not think that it is.”
Lady Meredith laughed as she put her arm round her
friend’s waist. “ Don’t lose your eloquence in defending him
to me,” she said. “ You’ll want all that for my mother.”
“ But is your mother angry ? ” asked Mrs. Robarts, showing
by her countenance how eager she was for true tidings on the
subject.
“ Well, Fanny, you know her ladyship as well as I do. She
thinks so very highly of the vicar of Framley, that she does
begrudge him to those politicians at Chaldicotes.”
But, Justinia, the bishop is to be there, you know.”
^ I don’t think that that consideration will at all reconcile
my mother to the gentleman’s absence. He ought to be very
proud, 1 know, to find that he is so much thought of. But
come, Fanny, I want you to walk back with me, and you can
dress at the house. And now we’ll go and look at the
children.”
After that, as they walked together to Framley Court, Mrs.
Robarts made her friend promise that she would stand by
her if any serious attack were made on the absent clergyman.
“'Are you going up to your room at once ? ” said the vicar’s
wife, as soon as they were inside the porch leading into the
hall. Lady Meredith immediately knew what her friend
meant, and decided that the evil day should not be post-
poned. “ We had better go in and have it over,” she said,
** and then we shall be comfortable for the evening.” So the
i8 Framley Parsonage
drawing-roon. door was opened, and there was Lady Lufton
alone upon the sofa.
Now, mamma,” said the daughter, you mustn’t scold
Fanny much about Mr. Robarts. He has gone to preach a
charity sermon before the bishop, and, under those circum-
stances, perhaps, he could not refuse.” This was a stretch on
the part of Lady Meredith — put in with much good-nature, no
doubt ; but still a stretch ; for no one had supposed that the
bishop would remain at Chaldicotes for the Sunday.
“ How do you do, Fanny ? ” said Lady Lufton, getting up.
“ 1 am not going to scold her ; and I don’t know how you can
talk such nonsense, Justinia. Of course, we are very sorry
not to have Mr. Robarts ; more especially as he was not here
the last Sunday that Sir George was with us. I do like to see
Mr. Robarts in his own church, certainly ; and 1 don’t like any
other clergyman there as well. If Fanny takes that for
scolding, why ”
“ Oh I no, I^dy Lufton ; and it’s so kind of you to say sa
But Mr. Robarts was so sorry that he had accepted this invita-
tion to Chaldicotes, before he heard that Sir George was
coming, and ”
**Oh, I know that Chaldicotes has great attractions which
we cannot offer,” said Lady Lufton.
Indeed, it was not that. But he was asked to preach, you
know ; and Mr. Harold Smith ” Poor Fanny was only
making it worse. Had she been worldly wise, she would have
accepted the little compliment implied in Lady Lufton’s first
rebuke, and then have held her peace.
“ Oh, yes ; the Harold Smiths ! They are irresistible, I
know. How could any man refuse to join a party, graced
both by Mrs. Harold Smith and Mrs. Proudie — even though
his duty should require him to stay away ? ”
“ Now, mamma ” said Justinia.
“Well, my dear, what am 1 to say? You would not wish
me to tell a fib. I don’t like Mrs. Harold Smith — at least,
what 1 hear of her ; for it has not been my fortune to meet
her since her marriage. It may be conceited; but to own
the truth, 1 think that Mr. Robarts would be better off with
us at Framley than with the Harold Smiths at Chaldicotes —
even though Mrs. Proudie be thrown into the bargain.”
It was nearly dark, and therefore the rising colour in the
face of MrS; Robarts could not be seen. She, however, was
too good a wife to hear these things said without some anger
within her bosom. She could blame her husband in her own
Chaldicotes 19
mind ; but it was intolerable to her that others should blame
him in her hearing.
“He would undoubtedly be better off,” she said ; “ but then,
Lady Lufton, people can’t always go exactly where they will
be best off. Gentlemen sometimes must ”
“ Well — well, my dear, that will do. He has not taken you,
at any rate ; and so we will forgive him.” And Lady Lufton
kissed her. “As it is,” — and she affected a low whisper
between the two young wives — “ as it is, we must e’en put up
with poor old Evan Jones. He is to be here to-night, and we
must go and dress to receive him.”
And so they went off. Lady Lufton was quite good enough
at heart to like Mrs. Robarts all the better for standing up for
her absent lord.
CHAPTER III
CHALDICOTES
Chaldicotes is a house of much more pretension than
Framley Court. Indeed, if one looks at the ancient marks
about it, rather than at those of the present day, it is a place
of very considerable pretension. There is an old forest, not
altogether belonging to the property, but attached to it, called
the Chase of Chaldicotes. A portion of this forest comes up
close behind the mansion, and of itself gives a character
and celebrity to the place. The Chase of Chaldicotes — the
greater part of it, at least — is, as all the world knows, Crown
property, and now, in these utilitarian days, is to be deforested.
In former times it was a great forest, stretching half across the
country, almost as far as Silverbridge ; and there are bits of it,
here and there, still to be seen at intervals throughout the
whole distance ; but the larger remaining portion, consisting
of aged hollow oaks, centuries old, and wide-spreading withered
beeches, stands in the two parishes of Chaldicotes and Uffley.
People still come from afar to see the oaks of Chaldicotes, and
to hear their feet rustle among the thick autumn leaves. But /
they will soon come no longer. The giants of past ages are /
to give way to wheat and turnips ; a ruthless Chancellor of the/
Exchequer, disregarding old associations and rural beauty/
requires money returns from the lands; and'lhe Chase r^f
Chaldicotes is to vanish from the earth’s surface. ^
Some part of it, however, is the private property of
20
Framley Parsonage
Mr. Sowerby, who hitherto, through all his pecuniary dis-
tresses, has managed to save from the axe and the auction-mart
that portion of his paternal heritage. The house 'of Chaldi-
cotes is a large stone building, probably of the time of Charles
the Second. It is approached on both fronts by a heavy double
flight of stone steps. In the front of the house a long,
solemn, straight avenue through a double row of lime-trees,
leads away to lodge-gates, which stand in the centre of the
village of Chaldicotes ; but to the rear the windows open upon
four different vistas, which run down through the forest : four
open green rides, which all converge together at a large iron
gateway, the barrier which divides the private grounds from
the Chase. The Sowerbys, for many generations, have been
rangers of the Chase of Chaldicotes, thus having almost as
wide an authority over the Crown forest as over their own.
But now all this is to cease, for the forest will be disforested.
It was nearly dark as Mark Robarts drove up through the
avenue of lime-trees to the hall-door ; but it was easy to sec
that the house, which was dead and silent as the grave through'
nine months of the year, was now alive in all its parts. There
were lights in many of the windows, and a noise of voices came
from the stables, and servants were moving about, and dogs
barked, and the dark gravel before . the front steps was cut up
with many a coach-wheel.
** Oh, be that you, sir, Mr. Robarts ? ” said a groom, taking
the parson’s horse by the head, and touching his own hat.
“ I hope I see your reverence well ? ”
“ Quite well, Bob, thank you. All well at Chaldicotes? ”
“ Pretty bobbish, Mr. Robarts. Deal of life going on here
now, sir. The bishop and his lady came this morning.”
“ Oh — ah — yes ! I understood they were to be here. Any
of the young ladies ? ”
’’ One young lady. Miss Olivia, I think they call her, youi
reverence.”
And how’s Mr. Sowerby ? ”
“Very well, your reverence. He, and Mr. Harold Smitl
and Mr. Fothergill — that’s the duke’s man of business, yo
know — is getting off their horses now in the stable-yard there
“ Home from hunting — eh, Bob ? ”
" Yes, sir, just home, this minute.” And then Mr. Robaf.
portmanteau following on a foo
young vicar was very intimate a
:^that the groom knew him, and
walked into
> hiS
Chaldicotes 21
talked to him about the people in the house. Yes ; he was
intimate there: much more than he had given the Framley
people to understand. Not that he had wilfully and overtly
deceived any one ; not that he had ever spoken a false word
about Chaldicotes. But he had never boasted at home that
he and Sowerby were near allies. Neither had he told them
there how often Mr. Sowerby and Lord Lufton were together
in London. Why trouble women with such matters ? Why
annoy so excellent a woman as Lady Lufton ? And then Mr.
Sowerby was one whose intimacy few young men would wish
to reject. He was fifty, and had lived, perhaps, not the most
salutary life ; but he dressed young, and usually looked well.
He was bald, with a good forehead, and sparkling moist eyes.
He was a clever man, and a pleasant companion, and always
good-humoured when It so suited him. He was a gentleman,
too, of high breeding and good birth, whose ancestors had
been known in that county — longer, the farmers around would
boast, than those of any other landowner in it, unless it be the
Thornes of Ullathorne, or perhaps the Greshams of Greshams-
bury — much longer than the De Courcys at Courcy Castle.
As for the Duke of Omnium, he, comparatively speaking, was
a new man. And then he was a member of Parliament, a
friend of some men in power, and of others who might be
there ; a man who could talk about the world as one knowing
the matter of which he talked. And moreover, whatever
might be his ways of life at other times, when in the presence
of a clergyman he rarely made himself offensive to clerical
tastes. He neither swore, nor brought his vices on the carpet,
nor sneered at the faith of the Church. If he was no church-
man himself, he at least knew how to live with those who
were.
^ How was it possible that such a one as our vicar should not
relish the intimacy of Mr. Sowerby ? It might be very well,
iie would say to himself, for a woman like Lady Lufton to
|um up her nose at him — for Lady Lufton, who spent ten
months of the year at Framley Court, and who during
those ten months, and for the matter of that, during the two
[Months also which she spent in London, saw no one out
g er own set. Women did not understand such things, the
r said to himself ; even his own wife — good, and nice, and
ible, and intelligent as she was — even she did not under,
d that a man in the world must meet all softs of men i
.and that in these days it did not do for a clergyman to be
hermit. Twas thus that Mark Roberts argued when he
22
Framley Parsonage
found himself called upon to defend himself before the bar of
his own conscience for going to Chaldicotes and increasing his
intimacy with Mr. Sowerby. He did know that Mr. Sowerby
was a dangerous man ; he was aware that he was over head
and ears in debt, and that he had already entangled young
Lord Lufton in some pecuniary embarrassment ; his conscience
did tell him that it would be well for him, as one of Christ’s
soldiers, to look out for companions of a different stamp. But
nevertheless he went to Chaldicotes, not satisfied with himself
indeed, but repeating to himself a great many arguments why
he should be so satisfied.
He was shown into the drawing-room at once, and there he
found Mrs. Harold Smith, with Mrs. and Miss Proudie, and a
lady whom he had never before seen, and whose name he did
not at first hear mentioned.
“Is that Mr. Robarts ? ” said Mrs. Harold Smith, getting up
to greet him, and screening her pretended ignorance under the
veil of the darkness. “ And have you really driven over four-
and-twenty miles of Barsetshire roads on such a day as this to
assist us in our little difficulties ? Well, we can promise you
gratitude at any rate.” And then the vicar shook hands with
Mrs. Proudie, in that deferential manner which is due from a
vicar to his bishop’s wife; and Mrs. Proudie returned the
greeting with all that smiling condescension which a bishop’s
wife should show to a vicar. Miss Proudie was not quite so
civil. Had Mr. Robarts been still unmarried, she also could
have smiled sweetly ; but she had been exercising smiles on
clergymen too long to waste them now on a married parish
parson.
“ And what are the difficulties, Mrs. Smith, in which I am
to assist you ? ”
“ We have six or seven gentlemen here, Mr. Robarts, and
they always go out hunting before breakfast, and they never
come back — I was going to say — till after dinner. I wish it
were so, for then we should not have to wait for them.”
“ Excepting Mr. Supplehouse, you know,” said the unknown
lady, in a loud voice.
“And he is generally shut up in the library, writing
articles.”
“ He’d be better employed if he were trying to break his
neck like the others/’ said the unknown lady.
“ Only he would never succeed,” says Mrs. Harold Smith.
“But perhaps, Mr. Robarts, you are as bad as the rest;
perhaps you, tc^ will be hunting to-morrow.”
Chaldicotes 23
My dear Mrs. Smith ! ” said Mrs. Proudie, in a tone
denoting slight reproach, and modified horror.
“ Oh ! I forgot. No, of course, you wOn’t be hunting, Mr.
Robarts ; you *11 only be wishing that you could.**
“Why can*t he ?** said the lady, with a loud voice.
“ My dear Miss Dunstable ! a clergyman hunt, while he is
staying in the same house with the bishop ? Think of the
proprieties . **
“ Oh — ah ! The bishop wouldn't like it — wouldn’t he ?
Now, do tell me, sir, what would the bishop do to you if you
did hunt ? **
“ It would depend upon his mood at the time, madam,**
said Mr. Robarts. “ If that were very stern, he might perhaps
have me beheaded before the palace gates.**
Mrs. Proudie drew iierself up in her chair, showing that
she did not like the tone of the conversation ; and Miss
Proudie fixed her eyes vehemently on her book, showing that
Miss Dunstable and her conversation were both beneath her
notice.
“ If these gentlemen do not mean to break their necks to-
night,** said Mrs. Harold Smith, “ I wish they*d let us know it.
It’s half-past six already.** And then Mr. Robarts gave them
to understand that no such catastrophe could be looked for
that day, as Mr. Sowcrby and the other sportsmen were within
the stable-yard when he entered the door.
“Then, ladies, we may as well dress,” said Mrs. Harold
Smith. But as she moved towards the door, it opened, and a
short gentleman, with a slow, quiet step, entered the room;
but was not yet to be distinguished through the dusk by the
eyes of Mr. Robarts. “Oh ! bishop, is that you ?** said Mrs.
Smith. “ Here is one of the luminaries of your diocese.**
And then the bishop, feeling through the dark, made his
way up to the vicar and shook him cordially by the hand.
“ He was delighted to meet Mr. Robarts at Chaldicotes,** he
said — “quite delighted. Was he not going to preach on
behalf of the Papuan Mission next Sunday ? Ah ! so he,
the bishop, had heard. It was a good work, an excellent
work.” And then Dr. Proudie expressed himself as much
grieved that he could not remain at Chaldicotes, and hear the
sermon. It was plain that the bishop thought no ill of him
on account of his intimacy with Mr. Sowerby. But then he
felt in his own heart that he did not much regard his bishop’s
opinion.
“ Ah, Robarts, I’m delighted to see you,” said Mr. Sowerby,
JB i8i
24 Framley Parsonage
when they met on the drawing-room rug before dinner. “ You
know Harold Smith? Yes, of course you do. Well, who else
is there ? Oh I Supplehouse. Mr. Supplehouse, allow me to
introduce to you my friend Mr. Robarts. It is he who will
extract the five-pound note out of your pocket next Sunday for
these poor Papuans whom we are going to Christianize. That
is, if Harold Smith does not finish the work out of hand at his
Saturday lecture. And, Robarts, you have seen the bishop,
of course : ” this he said in a whisper. “ A fine thing to be
a bishop, isn’t it ? I wish I had half your chance. But, my
dear fellow, I’ve made such a mistake ; I haven’t got a
bachelor parson for Miss Proudie. You must help me cut,
and take her in to dinner.” And then the great gong sounded,
and off they went in pairs.
At dinner Mark found himself seated between Miss Proudie
and the lady whom he had heard named as Miss Dunstable.
Of the former he was not very fond, and, in spite of his host’s
petition, was not inclined to play bachelor parson for her
benefit. With tlie other lady he would willingly have chatted
during the dinner, only that everybody else at table seemed
to be intent on doing the same thing. She was neither
young, nor. beautiful, nor peculiarly ladylike ; yet she seemed
to enjoy a popularity which must have excited the envy of
Mr. Supplehouse, and which certainly was not altogether to
the trjsle /)f Mrs. Proudie — who, however, feted her as much
as did the others. So that our clergyman found himself
unable to obtain more than an inconsiderable share of the
lady’s attention.
“ Bishop,” said she, speaking across the table, “ we have
missed you so all day ! we have had no one on earth to say
a single word to us.”
“ My dear Miss Dunstable, had I known that But I
really was engaged on business of some importance.”
“ I don’t believe in business of importance ; do you, Mrs.
Smith ? ”
“ Do I not ? ” said Mrs. Smith. “ If you were married to
Mr. Harold Smith for one week, you’d believe in it.”
“ Should I, now ? What a pity that I can’t have that
chance of improving my faith ! But you are a man of
business, also, Mr. Supplehouse ; so they tell me.” And she
turned to her neighbour on her right hand.
I cannot compare myself to Harold Smith,” said he.
“ But perhips I may equal the bishop.”
What does a man do, now, when he sits himself down to
Chaldicotes 25
business ? How does he set about it ? What are his tools ?
A quire of blotting-paper, I suppose, to begin with ? ”
“ That depends, I should say, on his trade. A shoemaker
begins by waxing his thread.”
“ And Mr. Harold Smith ? ”
“ By counting up his yesterday’s figures, generally, I should
say ; or else by unrolling a ball of red tape. Well-docketed
papers and statistical facts are his forte.”
“ And what does a bishop do? Can you tell me that ? ”
“ He sends forth to his clergy either blessings or blowings-
up, according to the state of his digestive organs. But
Mrs. Proudie can explain all that to you with the greatest
accuracy.”
“ Can she now ? I understand what you mean, but I don’t
believe a word of il. The bishop manages his own affairs
himself, quite as much as you do, or Mr. Harold Smith.”
“ I, Miss Dunstable ? ”
“Yes, you.”
“ But I, unluckily, have not a wife to manage them for
me.”
“Then you should not laugh at those who have, for you
don’t know what you may come to yourself, when you’re
married.”
Mr. Supplehouse began to make a pretty speech, saying that
he would be delighted to incur any danger in that respect to
which he might be subjected by the companionship of Miss
Dunstable. But before he was half through it, she had turned
her back upon him, and begun a conversation with Mark
Robarts.
“ Have you much work in your parish, Mr. Robarts ? ” she
asked. Now, Mark was not aware that she knew his name, or
the fact of his having a parish, and was rather surprised by the
question. And he had not quite liked the tone in which she
had seemed to speak of the bishop and his work. His desire
for her further acquaintance was tlierefore somewhat moderated,
and he was not prepared to answer her question with much zeal.
“ Ail parish clergymen have plenty of work, if they choose
to do it.”
“ Ah, that is it ; is it not, Mr. Robarts ? If they choose to
do it? A great many do — many that I know, do; and see
what a result they have. But many neglect it — and see what
a result they have. I think it ought to be the happiest life that
a man can lead, that of a parish clergyman, with a wife and
family and a sufficient income.”
26 Framley Parsonage
1 think it is,” said Mark Robarts, asking himself whether
the contentment accruing to him from such blessings had
made him satisfied at all points. He had all these things of
which Miss Dunstable spoke, and yet he had told his wife, the
other day, that he could not afford to neglect the acquaintance
of a rising politician like Harold Smith.
“ What 1 find fault with is this,” continued Miss Dunstable,
“ that we expect clergymen to do their duty, and don’t give
them a sufficient income — give them hardly any income at all.
Is it not a scandal, that an educated gentleman with a famiiy
should be made to work half his life, and perhaps the whole,
for a pittance of seventy pounds a year.” Mark said that it
was a scandal, and thought of Mr. Evan Jones and his
daughter ; and thought also of his own worth, and his own
house, and his own nine hundred a year.
“ And yet you clergymen are so proud — aristocratic would
be the genteel word, I know — that you won’t take the money
of common, ordinary poor people. You must be paid from
land and endowments, from tithe and church property. You
can’t bring yourself to work for what you earn, as lawyers and
doctors do. It is better that curates should starve than under-
go such ignominy as that.”
“ It is a long subject. Miss Dunstable.”
A very long one ; and that means that I am not to say any
more aboyt it.”
“ I did not mean that exactly.”
“ Oh, but you did though, Mr. Robarts. And I can take a
hint of that kind when I get it. You clergymen like to keep
those long subjects for your sermons, when no one can answer
you. Now if I have a longing heart’s desire for anything at all
in this world, it is to be able to get up into a pulpit, and preach
a sermon.”
“You can’t conceive how soon that appetite would pall
upon you, after its first indulgence.”
“ That would depend upon whether I could get people to
listen to me. It does not pall upon Mr. Spurgeon, I suppose.”
Then her attention was called away by some question from Mr.
Sowerby, and Mark Robarts found himself bound to address
his conversation to Miss Proudie. Miss Proudie, however,
was not thankful, and gave him little but monosyllables for his
pains.
“ Of course you know Harold Smith is going to give us a
lecture about these islanders,” Mr. Sowerby said to him, as
they sat round the fire over their wine after dinner. Mark
Chaldicotes 27
said that he had been so informed, and should be delighted
to be one of the listeners.
“ You are bound to do that, as he is going to listen to you
the day afterwards — or, at any rate, to pretend to do so,
which is as much as you will do for him. It’ll be a terrible
bore — the lecture, I mean, not the sermon.” And he spoke
very low into his friend’s ear. “ Fancy having to drive ten
miles after dusk, and ten miles back, to hear Harold Smith
talk for two hours about Borneo ! One must do it, you
know.”
“ I daresay it will be very interesting.”
“ My dear fellow, you haven’t undergone so many of these
things as I have. But he’s right to do it. It’s his line of life ;
and when a man begins a thing he ought to go on with it.
Where’s Lufton all tin.; time ? ”
“In Scotland, when I last heard from him ; but he’s
probably at Melton now.”
“ It’s deuced shabby of him, not hunting here in his own
county. He escapes all the bore of going to lectures, and
giving feeds to the neighbours ; that’s why he treats us so. He
has no idea of his duty, has he ? ”
“ Lady Lufton does all that, you know.’*
“ I wish I’d a Mrs. Sowerby mire to do it for me. But
then Lufton has no constituents to look after — lucky dog !
By-the-by, has he spoken to you about selling that outlying
bit of land of his in Oxfordshire ? It belongs to the Lufton
property, and yet it doesn’t. In my mind it gives more
trouble than it’s worth.” Lord Lufton had spoken to Mark
about this sale, and had explained to him that such a sacrifice
was absolutely necessary, in consequence of certain pecuniary
transactions Vjetween him. Lord Lufton, and Mr. Sowerby.
But it was found impracticable to complete the business with-
out Lady Lufton’s knowledge, and her son had commissioned
Mr. Robarts not only to inform her ladyship, but to talk her
over, and to appease her wrath. This commission he had not
yet attempted to execute, and it was probable that this
visit to Chaldicotes would not do much to facilitate the
business.
“ They are the most magnificent islands under the sun,”
said Harold Smith to the bishop.
“Are they, indeed ! ” said the bishop, opening his eyes wide,
and assuming a look of intense interest.
“ And the most intelligent people.”
“ Dear me ! ” said the bishop.
28 Framley Parsonage
“ All they want is guidance, encouragement, instruc-
tion ”
“ And Christianity,” suggested the bishop.
“ And Christianity, of course,” said Mr. Smith, remembering
that he was speaking to a dignitary of the Church. It was
well to humour such people, Mr. Smith thought. But the
Christianity was to be done in the Sunday sermon, and was not
part of his work.
“ And how do you intend to begin with them ? ” ask^d Mr.
Supplehouse, the business of whose life it had been to suggest
difficulties.
“ Begin with them — oh — why — it*s very easy to begin with
them. The difficulty is to go on with them, after the money
is all spent. We’ll begin by explaining to them the benefits of
civilization.”
“ Capital plan ! ” said Mr. Supplehouse. “ But how do you
set about it, Smith ? ”
“How do we set about it? How did we set about it with
Australia and America ? It is very easy to criticize ; but in such
matters the great thing is to put one’s shoulder to the wheel.”
“We sent our felons to Australia,” said Supplehouse, “and
they began .the work for us. And as to America, we exter-
minated the people instead of civilizing them.”
“ We did not exterminate the inhabitants of India,” said
Harold Sinith, angrily.
“ Nor have we attempted to Christianize them, as the bishop
so properly wishes to do with your islanders.”
“ Supplehouse, you are not fair,” said Mr. Sowerby, “ neither
to Harold Smith nor to us ; — ^you are making him rehearse
his lecture, which is bad for him ; and making us hear the re-
hearsal, which is bad for us.”
“ Supplehouse belongs to a clique which monopolizes the
wisdom of England,” said Harold Smith, “or, at any rate,
thinks that it does. But the worst of them is that they are given
to talk leading articles.”
“ Better that, than talk articles which are not leading,” said
Mr. Supplehouse. “ Some first-class official men do that.”
“ Shall I meet you at the duke’s next week, Mr. Robarts ? ”
said the bishop to him, soon after they had gone into the
drawing-room. Meet him at the duke’s ! — the established
enemy of Barsetshire mankind, as Lady Lufton regarded his
grace ! No idea of going to the duke’s had ever entered our
hero’s mind ; nor had he been aware that the duke was about
to entertain any one.
Chaldicotes 29
“ No, my lord ; I think not. Indeed, I have no ac-
quaintance with his grace.’* i
“ Oh — ah ! I did not know. Because Mr. Sowerby is going ;
and so are the Harold Smiths, and, I think, Mr. Supplehouse.
An excellent man is the duke; — that is, as regards all the
county interests,” added the bishop, remembering that the
moral character of his bachelor grace was not the very best
in the world. And then his lordship began to ask some
questions about the church affairs of Framley, in which a little
interest as to Framley Court was also mixed up, when he was
interrupted by a rather sharp voice, to which he instantly
attended.
“ Bishop,” said the rather sharp voice ; and the bishop
trotted across the room to the back of the sofa, on which his
wife was sitting. Lliss Dunstable thinks that she will be
able to come to us for a couple of days, after we leave the
duke’s.”
“ 1 shall be delighted above all things,” said the bishop,
bowing low to the dominant lady of the day. For be it known
to all men, that Miss Dunstable was the great heiress of that
name.
“ Mrs. Proudie is so very kind as to say that she will take
me in, with my poodle, parrot, and pet old woman.”
“ I tell Miss Dunstable that we shall have quite room for
any of her suite,” said Mrs. Proudie. “ And that it will
give us no trouble.”
“ ‘ The labour we delight in physics pain,’ ” said the gallant
bishop, bowing low, and putting his hand upon his heart. In
the meantime Mr. Fothergill had got hold of Mark Robarts.
Mr. Fothergill was a gentleman and a magistrate of the county,
but he occupied the position of managing man on the Duke
of Omnium’s estates. He was not exactly his agent ; that is to
say, he did not receive his rents ; but he “ managed ” for him,
saw people, went about the county, wrote letters, supported
the electioneering interest, did popularity when it was too
much trouble for the duke to do it himself, and was, in fact,
invaluable. People in West Barsetshire would often say that
they did not know what on earth the duke would do, if it
we;e not for Mr. P'othergill. Indeed, Mr. Fothergill was
useful to the duke.
“ Mr. Robarts,” he said, I am very happy to have the
pleasure of meeting you — very happy indeed. I have often
heard of you from our friend Sowerby.” Mark bowed, and
said that he was delighted to have the honour of making
30 Framley Parsonage
Mr. Fothergill’s acquaintance. I am commissioned by the
Duke of Omnium,” continued Mr. Fothergill, “to say how
glad he will be if you will join his grace’s party at Gatherum
Castle next week. The bishop will be there, and indeed
nearly the whole set who are here now. The duke would have
written when he heard that you were to be at Chaldicotes ;
but things were hardly quite arranged then, so his grace has
left it for me to tell you how happy he will be to make your
acquaintance in his own house. I have spoken to Soverby,”
continued Mr. Fothergill, “ and he very much hopes that you
will be able to join us.”
Mark felt that his face became red when this proposition
was made to him. The party in the county to which he
properly belonged — he and his wife, and all that made him
happy and respectable — looked upon the Duke of Omnium
with horror and amazement ; and now he had absolutely
received an invitation to the duke’s house ! A proposition was
made to him that he should be numbered among the duke’s
friends !
And though in one sense he was sorry that the proposition
was made to him, yet in another he was proud of it. It is
not every young man, let his profession be what it may, who
can receive overtures of friendship from dukes without some
elation. Mark, too, had risen in the world, as far as he had
yet risen, by knowing great people ; and he certainly had an
ambition to rise higher. I will not degrade him by calling
him a tuft-hunter; but he undoubtedly had a feeling that
the paths most pleasant for a clergyman's feet were those
which were trodden by the great ones of the earth. Never-
theless, at the moment he declined the duke’s invitation.
He was very much flattered, he said, but the duties of
his parish would require him to return direct from Chaldicotes
to Framley.
“You need not give me an answer to-night, you know,”
said Mr. Fothergill. “ Before the week is past, we will
talk it over with Sowerby and the bishop. It will be a
thousand pities, Mr. Robarts, if you will allow me to say
so, that you should neglect such an opportunity of knowing
his grace.”
When Mark went to bed, his mind was still set against going
to the duke’s ; but, nevertheless, he did feel that it was a pity
that he should not do so. After all, was it necessary that he
should obejT Lady Lufton in all things ?
A Matter of Conscience
31
CHAPTER IV
A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE
It is no doubt very wrong to long after a naughty thing. But
nevertheless we all do so. One may say that hankering after
naughty things is the very essence of the evil into which we
have been precipitated by Adam’s fall. When we confess that
we are all sinners, we confess that we all long after naughty
things. And ambition is a great vice — as Mark Anthony told
us a long time ago — a great vice, no doubt, if the ambition
of the man be with reference to his own advancement, and not
to the advancement of others. But then, how many of us
are there who are not ambitious in this vicious manner? And
there is nothing viler than the desire to know great people —
people of great rank, I should say ; nothing worse than the
hunting of titles and worshipping of wealth. We all know
this, and say it every day of our lives. But presuming that
a way into the society of Park Lane was open to us, and
a way also into that of Bedford Row, how many of us are
there who would prefer Bedford Row because it is so vile to
worship wealth and title.
I am led into these rather trite remarks by the necessity of
putting forward some sort of excuse for that frame of mind in
which the Rev. Mark Robarts awoke on the morning after his
arrival at Chalclicotes. And I trust that the fact of his being
a clergyman will not be allowed to press against him unfairly.
Clergymen are subject to the same passions as other men ; and,
as far as I can see, give way to them, in one line or in another,
almost as frequently. Every clergyman should, by canonical
rule, feel a personal disinclination to a bishopric ; but yet we
do not believe that such personal disinclination is generally
very strong. Mark’s first thoughts when he woke on that
morning flew back to Mr. Fothergill’s invitation. The duke
had sent a special message to say how peculiarly glad he, the
duke, would be to make acquaintance with him, the parson !
How much of this message had been of Mr. Fothergill’s own
manufacture, that Mark Robarts did not consider. He had
obtained a living at an age when other young clergymen are
beginning to think of a curacy, and he had obtained such a
living as middle-aged parsons in their dreams regard as a
possible Paradise for their old years. Of course he thought
that all these good things had been the results of his own
32 Framley Parsonage
peculiar merits. Of course he felt that he was diflFerent from
other parsons, — more fitted by nature for intimacy with great
persons, more urbane, more polished, and more richly endowed
with modern clerical well-to-do aptitudes. He was grateful to
Lady Lufton for what she had done for him ; but perhaps not
so grateful as he should have been.
At any rate he was not Lady Lufton's servant, nor even her
dependant. So much he had repeated to himself on many
occasions, and had gone so far as to hint the same idea to his
wife. In his career as parish priest he must in most things be
the judge of his own actions — and in many also it was his duty
to be the judge of those of his patroness. The fact of Lady
Lufton having placed him in the living, could by no means
make her the proper judge of his actions. This he often said
to himself ; and he said as often that I^dy Lufton certainly
had a hankering after such a judgment-seat.
Of whom generally did prime ministers and official bigwigs
think it expedient to make bishops and deans ? Was it not, as
a rule, of those clergymen who had shown themselves able to
perform their clerical duties efficiently, and able also to take
their place with ease in high society ? He was very well off
certainly at Framley ; but he could never hope for anything
beyond Framley, if he allow'ed himself to regard Lady Lufton
as a bugbear. Putting Lady Lufton and her prejudices out of
the question, was there any reason why he ought not to accept
the duke's invitation ? He could not see that there was any
such reason. If any one could be a better judge on such a
subject than himself, it must be his bishop. And it was clear
that the bishop wished him to go to Gatherum Castle.
The matter was still left open to him. Mr. Fothcrgill had
especially explained that ; and therefore his ultimate decision
was as yet within his own power. Such a visit would cost him
some money, for he knew that a man does not stay at great
houses without expense; and then, in spite of his good income,
he was not very flush of money. He had been down this year
with Lord Lufton in Scotland. Perhaps it might be more
prudent for him to return home. But then an idea came to
him that it behoved him as a man and a priest to break through
that Framley thraldom under which he felt that he did to a
certain extent exist. Was it not the fact that he was about to
decline this invitation from fear of Lady Lufton ? and if so,
was that a ^lotive by which he ought to be actuated ? It was
incumbent on him to rid himself of that feeling And in this
spirit he got up and dressed.
A Matter of Conscience 33
There was hunting again on that day ; and as the hounds
were to meet near Chaldicotes, and to draw some coverts
lying on the verge of the chase, the ladies were to go in
carriages through the drives of the forest, and Mr. Robarts was
to escort them on horseback. Indeed it was one of those hunt-
ing-days got up rather for the ladies than for the sport. Great
nuisances they are to steady, middle-aged hunting men ; but
the young fellows like them because they have thereby an
opportunity of showing off their sporting finery, and of doing a
little flirtation on horseback. The bishop, also, had been
minded to be of the party ; so, at least, he had said on the
previous evening ; and a place in one of the carriages had
been set apart for him : but since that, he and Mrs. Proudie
had discussed the matter in private, and al breakfast his lord-
ship declared that he liad changed his mind.
Mr. Sowerby was one of those men who are known to be
very poor — as poor as debt can make a man — but who, never-
theless, enjoy all the luxuries which money can give. It was
believed that he could not live in England out of jail but for
his protection as a member of Parliament ; and yet it seemed
that there was no end to his horses and carriages, his servants
and retinue. He had been at this work for a great many years,
and practice, they say, makes perfect. Such companions are
very dangerous. There is no cholera, no yellow-fever, no small-
pox, more contagious than debt. If one lives habitually among
embarrassed men, one catches it to a certainty. No one had
injured the community in this way more fatally than Mr.
Sowerby. But still he carried on the game himself ; and now,,
on this morning, carriages and horses thronged at his gate, as
though he were as substantially rich as his friend the Duke of
Omnium.
“Robarts, my dear fellovr,” said Mr. Sowerby, when they
were well under way down one of the glades of the forest, —
for the place where the hounds met was some four or five
miles from the house of Chaldicotes, — “ ride on with me a
moment. I want to speak to you ; and if I stay behind we
shall never get to the hounds.” So Mark, who had come
expressly to escort the ladies, rode on alongside of Mr. Sowerby
in Ills pink coat.
“ My dear fellow, Fothergill tells me that you have some
hesitation about going to Gatherum Castle.”
“ Well, I did decline, certainly. You know I am not a man
of pleasure, as you are. I have some duties to attend to.”
“ Gammon 1 ” said Mr. Sowerby ; and as he said it, he
34 Framley Parsonage
looked with a kind of derisive smile into the clergyman’s
face.
“ It is easy enough to say that, Sowerby ; and perhaps 1
have no right to expect that you should understand me.”
“ Ah, but I do understand you ; and I say it is gammon. I
would be the last man in the world to ridicule your scruples
about duty, if this hesitation on your part arose from any
such scruple. But answer me honestly, do you not know that
such is not the case ? ”
“ I know nothing of the kind.”
“ Ah, but I think you do. If you persist in refusing this
invitation will it not be because you are afraid of making Lady
Lufton angry? I do not know what there can be in that
woman that she is able to hold both you and Lufton in leading-
strings.” Robarts, of course, denied the charge, and protested
that he was not to be taken back to his own parsonage by any
fear of Lady Lufton. But though he made such protest with
warmth, he knew that he did so ineffectually. Sowerby only
smiled, and said that the proof of the pudding was in the
eating.
“ What is the good of a man keeping a curate if it be not to
save him from that sort of drudgery ? ” he asked.
“ Drudgery I If I were a drudge how could I be here to-
day ? ’*
“ Well, 'Robarts, look here. I am speaking now, perhaps,
with more of the energy of an old friend than circumstances
fully warrant ; but I am an older man than you, and as I have
a regard for you I do not like to see you throw up a good game
when it is in your hands.”
” Oh, as far as that goes, Sowerby, I need hardly tell you
that I appreciate your kindness.”
“ If you are content,” continued the man of the world, “ to
live at Framley all your life, and to warm yourself in the sun-
shine of the dowager there, why, in such case, it may perhaps
be useless for you to extend the circle of your friends ; but if
you have higher ideas than these, you will be very wrong to
omit the present opportunity of going to the duke’s. I never
knew the duke go so much out of his way to be civil to a
clergyman as he has done in this instance.”
•• I am sure I am very much obliged to him.”
•‘The fact is, that you may, if you please, make yourself
popular in the county ; but you cannot do it by obeying all
Lady Lufion’s behests. She is a dear old woman, I am sure.”
“ She is, Sowerby ; and you would say so, if you knew her.”
A Matter of Conscience 35
I don’t doubt it ; but it would not do for you or me to live
exactly according to her ideas. Now, here, in this case, the
bishop of the diocese is to be one of the party, and he has, 1
believe, already expressed a wish that you should be another.”
“ He asked me if I were going.”
“ Exactly ; and Archdeacon Grantly will be there.”
“ Will he ? ” asked Mark. Now, that would be a great point
gained, for Archdeacon Grantly was a close friend of Lady
Lufton.
“ So I understand from Fothergill. Indeed, it will be very
wrong of you not to go, and I tell you so plainly ; and what is
more, when you talk about your duty — you having a curate
as you have — why, it is gammon.” These last words he spoke
looking back over his shoulder as he stood up in his stirrups,
for he had caught the eye of the huntsman, who was sur-
rounded by his hounds, and was now trotting on to join him.
During a great portion of the day, Mark found himself riding
by the side of Mrs. Proudie, as that lady leaned back in her
carriage. And Mrs. Proudie smiled on him graciously, though
her daughter would not do so. Mrs. Proudie was fond of
having an attendant clergyman ; and as it was evident that Mr.
Robarts lived among nice people — titled dowagers, members
of Parliament, and people of that sort — she was quite willing
to instal him as a sort of honorary chaplain pro tern,
“ ril tell you what we have settled, Mrs. Harold Smith and
I,” said Mrs. Proudie to him. “ This lecture at Barchester
will be so late on Saturday evening, that you had all better
come and dine with us.” Mark bowed and thanked her,
and declared that he should be very happy to make one of
such a party. Even Lady Lufton could not object to this,
although she was not especially fond of Mrs. Proudie.
“ And then they are to sleep at the hotel. It will really be
loo late for ladies to think of going back so far at this time
of the year. I told Mrs. Harold Smith, and Miss Dunstable,
too, that we could manage to make room at any rate for them.
But they will not leave the other ladies ; so they go to the hotel
for that night. But, Mr, Robarts, the bishop will never allow
you to stay at the inn, so of course you will take a bed at the
palace.”
It immediately occurred to Mark that as the lecture was to
be given on Saturday evening, the next morning would be
Sunday ; and, on that Sunday, he would have to preach at
Chaldicotes. "I thought they were all going to return the
same nijght,” said he.
36 Framley Parsonage
“ Well, they did intend it ; but you see Mrs. Smith is afraid.”
“ I should have to get back here on the Sunday morning,
Mrs. Proiidie.”
“ Ah, yes, that is bad — very bad indeed. No one dislikes
any interference with the Sabbath more than I do. Indeed, if
I am particular about anything it is about that. But some
works are works of necessity, Mr. Robarts ; are they not ^
Now you must necessarily be back at Chaldicotes on Sunday
morning ! ” And so the matter was settled. Mrs. Proudie
was very firm in general in the matter of Sabbath-day obser-
vances ; but when she had to deal with such persons as Mrs.
Harold Smith, it was expedient that she should give w^ay a
little. “ You can start as soon as iPs daylight, you know, if
you like it, Mr. Robarts,” said Mrs. Proudie.
There was not much to boast of as to the hunting, but it
was a very pleasant day for the ladies. The men rode up and
down the grass roads through the chase, sometimes in the
greatest possible hurry as though they never could go quick
enough ; and then the coachmen would drive very fast also,
though they did not know why, for a fast pace of movement is
another of those contagious diseases. And then again the
sportsmen would move at an undertaker’s pace, when the fox
had traversed and the hounds would be at a loss to know
which was the hunt and which was the heel ; and then the
carriage also would go slowly, and the ladies would stand up
and talk. And then the time for lunch came ; and altogether
the day went by pleasantly enough.
“ And so that’s hunting, is it ? ” said Miss Dunstable.
“ Yes, that’s hunting,” said Mr. Sowerby,
" I did not see any gentleman do anything that I could not
do myself, except there was one young man slipped off into
the mud ; and I shouldn’t like that.”
“ But there was no breaking of bones, was there, my dear ? ”
said Mrs. Harold Smith.
“And nobody caught any foxes,” said Miss Dunstable.
“ The fact is, Mrs. Smith, that I don’t think much more of
their sport than 1 do of their business. I shall take to hunting
a pack of hounds myself after this.”
“Do, my dear, and I’ll be your whipper-in. I wonder
whether Mrs. Proudie would join us.”
“ I shall be writing to the duke to-night,” said Mr. Fothergill
to Mark, as they were all riding up to the stable-yard together.
’*You will let me tell his grace that you will accept his
invitation — will you not ? ”
37
A Matter of Conscience
“ Upon my word, the duke is very kind,” said Mark.
“ He is very anxious to know you, I can assure you,” said
Fothergill. What could a young flattered fool of a parson do,
but say that he would go ? Mark did say that he would go ;
and in the course of the evening his friend Mr. Sowerby con-
gratulated him, and the bishop joked with him and said that
he knew that he would not give up good company so soon ;
and Miss Dunstable said she would make him her chap-
lain as soon as Parliament would allow quack doctors to
have such articles — an allusion which Mark did not under-
stand, till he learned that Miss Dunstable was herself the
proprietress of the celebrated Oil of Lebanon, invented by
her late respected father, and patented by him with such
wonderful results in the way of accumulated fortune; and
Mrs. Proudie made hi in quite one of their parly, talking to
him about all manner of church subjects ; and then at last,
even Miss Proudie smiled on him, when she learned that he
had been thought worthy of a bed at a duke's castle. And
all the world seemed to be open to him.
But he could not make himself happy that evening. On
the next morning he must write to his wife ; and he could
already see the look of painful sorrow which would fall upon
his Fanny’s brow when she learned that her husband was going
to be a guest at the Duke of Omnium’s. And he must tell
her to send him money, and money was scarce. And then, as
to Lady Lufton, should he send her some message, or should
he not ? In either case he must declare war against her. And
then did he not owe everything to Lady Lufton ? And thus
in spile of all his triumphs he could not get himself to bed in
a happy fr.ime of mind.
On the next day, which was Friday, he postponed the dis-
agreeable task of writing, Saturday would do as well ; and on
Saturday morning, before they all started for Barchester, he
did write. And his letter ran as follows : —
Chaldicotes, — November, 185-.
“Dearest Love, — You will be astonished when I tell you
how gay we all are here, and what further dissipations are in
sto^e for us. The Arabins, as you supposed, are not of our
party; but the Proudies are, — as you supposed also. Your
suppositions are always right. And what will you think when
I tell you that I am to sleep at the palace on Saturday ? You
know that there is to be a lecture in Barchester on that day.
Well ; we must all go, of course, as Harold Smith, one of out
38 Framley Parsonage
set here, is to give it. And now it turns out that we cannot
get back the same night because there is no moon ; and Mrs.
Bishop would not allow that my cloth should be contaminated
by an hotel ; — very kind and considerate, is it not ?
“ But I have a more astounding piece of news for you than
this. There is to be a great party at Gatherum Castle next
week, and they have talked me over into accepting an invitation
which the duke sent expressly to me. I refused at first ; but
everybody here said that my doing so would be so strange ;
and then they all wanted to know my reason. When I came
to render it, 1 did not know what reason I had to give. The
bishop is going, and he thought it very odd that I should not
go also, seeing that I was asked. I know what my own darling
will think, and I know that she will not be pleased, and I
must put off my defence till I return to her from this ogreland,
— if ever I do get back alive. But joking apart, Fanny, I
think that I should have been wrong to stand out, when so
much was said about it. I should have been seeming to take
upon myself to sit in judgment upon the duke. I doubt if
there be a single clergyman in the diocese, under fifty years of
age, who would have refused the invitation under such circum-
stances, — unless it be Crawley, who is so mad on the subject
that he thinks it almost wrong to take a walk out of his own
parish. I must stay at Gatherum Castle over Sunday week —
indeed, we'only go there on Friday. I have written to Jones
about the duties. I can make it up to him, as I know he
wishes to go into Wales at Christmas. My wanderings will
all be over then, and he may go for a couple of months if he
pleases. I suppose you will take my classes in the school on
Sunday, as well as your own ; but pray make them have a good
fire. If this is too much for you, make Mrs. Podgens take the
boys. Indeed I think that will be better.
“Of course you will tell her ladyship of my whereabouts.
Tell her from me, that as regards the bishop, as well as regard-
ing another great personage, the colour has been laid on
perhaps a little too thickly. Not that Lady Lufton would ever
like him. Make her understand that my going to the duke's
has almost become a matter of conscience with me. I have
not known how to make it appear that it would be right for me
to refuse, without absolutely making a party matter of it. I
saw that it would be said, that I, coming from Lady Lufton’s
parish, could not go to the Duke of Omnium’s. This 1 did
not choose.
“ 1 find that I shall want a little more money before 1 leave
Amantium Irae Amoris Integratio 39
here, five or ten pounds — say ten pounds. If you cannot
spare it, get it from Davis. He owes me more than that, a
good deal. And now, God bless and preserve you, my own
love. Kiss my darling bairns for papa, and give them my
blessing.
“ Always and ever your own,
“ M. R.”
And then there was written, on an outside scrap which
was folded round the full-written sheet of pa[)er, “ Make it as
smooth at Framley Court as possible.” However strong, and
reasonable, and unanswerable the body of Mark’s letter may
have been, all his hesitation, weakness, doubt, and fear, were
expressed in this short postscript.
CHAPTER V
AMANTIUM IRAS AMORIS INTEGRATIO
And now, wiili my reader’s consent, I will follow the post-
man with that letter to Framley ; not by its own circuitous
route indeed, or by the same mode of conveyance ; for that
letter went into Barchester by the Courcy night mail-cart,
which, on its road, passes through the villages of Uffley and
Chaldicotes, reaching Barchester in time for the up mail-train
to London. By that train, the letter was sent towards the
metropolis as far as the junction of the Barset branch line, but
there it was turned in its course, and came down again by the
main line as far as Silverbridge ; at which place, between six
and seven in the morning, it was shouldered by the h^amley
footpost messenger, and in due course delivered at the
Framley Parsonage exactly as Mrs. Robarts had finished
reading prayers to the four servants. Or, I should say rather,
that such would in its usual course have been that letter’s
destiny. As it was, however, it reached Silverbridge on
Sunday, and lay there till the Monday, as the Framley people
have declined their Sunday post. And then again, when the
letter was delivered at the parsonage, on that wet Monday
morning, Mrs. Robarts was not at home. As we are all aware,
she was staying with her ladyship at Framley Court.
“ Oh, but it’s mortial wet,” said the shivering f>ostman as he
handed in that and the vicar’s newspaper. The vicar was a
man pf the world, and took the Jupiter,
40 Framley Parsonage
“ Come in, Robin postman, and warm theeself awhile,” said
Jemima the cook, pushing a stool a little to one side, but still
well in front of the big kitchen fire.
“Well, I dudna jist know how it’ll be. The wery ’edges
’as eyes and tells on me in Silverbridge, if I so much as stops
to pick a blackberry.”
“There bain’t no hedges here, mon, nor yet no blackberries ;
so sit thee down and warm theeself. That’s better nor
blackberries. I’m thinking,” and she handed him a bowl of tea
with a slice of buttered toast. Robin postman took the
proffered tea, put his dripping hat on the ground, and thanked
Jemima cook. “ But I dudna jist know how it’ll be,” said
he ; “ only it do pour so tarnation heavy.” \Vhich among us,
O my readers, could have withstood that temptation ?
Such was the circuitous course of Mark’s letter ; but as it
left Chaldicotes on Saturday evening, and reached Mrs. Robarts
on the following morning, or would have done, but for that
intervening Sunday, doing all its peregrinations during the
night, it may be held that its course of transport was not
inconveniently arranged. We, however, will travel by a much
shorter route. Robin, in the course of his daily travels, passed,
first the post-office at Framley, then the Framley Court back
entrance, and then the vicar’s house, so that on this wet
morning Jemima cook was not able to make use of his services
in transporting this letter back to her mi stress ; for Robin had
got another village before him, expectant of its letters.
“ Why didn’t thee leave it, mon, with Mr. Applejohn at the
Court ? ” Mr. Applejohn was the butler who took the letter-
bag. “ Thee know’st as how missus was there.” And then
Robin, mindful of the tea and toast, explained to her courteously
how the law made it imperative on him to bring the letter to
the very house that was indicated, let the owner of the letter
be where she might ; and he laid down the law very satisfactorily
with sundry long-worded quotations- Not to much effect,
however, for the housemaid called him an oaf; and Robin
would decidedly have had the worst of it had not the gardener
come in and taken his part. “ They women knows nothin’,
and understands nothin’,” said the gardener. “ Give us hold of
the letter. I’ll take it up to the house. It’s the master’s fist.”
And then Robin postman went on one way, and the gardener,
he went the other. The gardener never disliked an excuse
for going qp to the Court gardens, even on so wet a day as
this.
Mrs. Robarts was sitting over the drawing-room fire with
Amantium Irae Amoris Integratio 41
Lady Meredith, when her husband’s letter was brought to her.
The Framley Court letter-bag had been discussed at breakfast ;
but that was now nearly an hour since, and Lady Lufton, as
was her wont, was away in her own room writing her own
letters, and looking after her own matters: for I^dy Lufton
was a person who dealt in figures herself, and understood
business almost as well as Harold Smith. And on that
morning she also had received a letter which had displeased
her not a little. Whence arose this displeasure neither Mrs.
Robarts nor Lady Meredith knew; but her ladyship’s brow
had grown black at breakfast time ; she had bundled up an
ominous-looking epistle into her bag without speaking of it,
and had left the room immediately that ])re.'ikfast was over.
“ There’s something wrong,” said Sir George.
“ Mamma does fret l.ocself so much about Ludovic’s money
matters,” said Lady Meredith. Ludovic was Lord Lufton, —
Liidovic Lufton, Baron Lufton of Lufton, in the county of
Oxfordshire.
“ And yet I don’t think Lufton gets much astray,” said Sir
George, as he sauntered out of the room. “Well, Justy, we’ll
put off going then till to-morrow ; but remember, it must be
the first train.” Lady Meredith said she would remember,
and then they went into the drawdng-rooni, and there Mrs.
Robarts received her letter. Fanny, when she read it, hardly
at first realized to herself the idea that her husband, the clergy-
man of Framley, the family clerical friend of Lady Lufton’s
establishment, was going to stay with the Duke of Omnium.
It was so thoroughly understood at Framley Court that the
duke and all belonging to him was noxious and damnable.
He was a Whig, he was a bachelor, he was a gambler, he was
immoral in every way, he was a man of no church principle,
a corrupter of youth, a sworn foe of young wives, a swallower
up of small men’s patrimonies ; a man whom mothers feared
for their sons, and sisters for their brothers ; and worse again,
whom fathers had cause to fear for their daughters, and
brothers for their sisters ; — a man who, with his belongings,
dwelt, and must dwell, poles asunder from Lady Lufton and
her belongings ! And it must be remembered that all these
evil things were fully believed by Mrs. Robarts. Could it
really be that her husband was going to dAvell in the halls of
Apollyon, to shelter himself beneath the wings of this very
Lucifer ? A cloud of sorrow settled upon her face, and then
she read the letter again very slowly, not omitting the tell-tale
I)OStscript.
42 Framley Parsonage
“ Oh, Justinia ! ” at last she said.
“ What, have you got bad news, too ? ”
“ I hardly know how to tell you what has occurred. There ;
I suppose you had better read it ; ” and she handed her
husband’s epistle to Lady Meredith, — keeping back, however,
the postscript.
“ What on earth will her ladyship say now ? ” said Lady
Meredith, as she folded the paper, and replaced it in the
envelope.
“ What had I better do, Justinia ? how had I better tell
her ? ” And then the two ladies put their heads together,
bethinking themselves how they might best deprecate the
wrath of Lady Lufton. It had been arranged that Mrs.
Robarts should go back to the parsonage after lunch, and
she had persisted in her intention after it had been settled
that the Merediths were to stay over that evening. Lady
Meredith now advised her friend to carry out this determina-
tion without saying anything about her husband’s terrible
iniquities, and then to send the letter up to Lady Lufton as
soon as she reached the parsonage. ** Mamma will never
know that you received it here,” said Lady Meredith. But
Mrs. Rolxirts would not consent to this. Such a course
seemed to her to be cowardly. She knew that her husband
was doing wrong ; she felt that he knew it himself ; but still
it was necessary that she should defend him. However
terrible might be the storm, it must break upon her own head.
So she at once went up and tapped at Lady Lufton’s private
door ; and as she did so Lady Meredith followed her.
** Come in,” said Lady Lufton, and the voice did not sound
soft and pleasant. When they entered, they found her sitting
at her little writing table, with her head resting on her arm,
and that letter which she had received that morning was lying
open on the table before her. Indeed there were two letters
now there, one from a London lawyer to herself, and the
other from her son to that London lawyer. It needs only
be explained that the subject of those letters was the im-
mediate sale of that outlying portion of the Lufton property in
Oxfordshire, as to which Mr. Sowerby once spoke. Lord
Lufton had told the lawyer that the thing must be done at
once, adding that his friend Robarts would have explained the
whole affair to his mother. And then the lawyer had written
to Lady l^ufton, as indeed was necessary ; but unfortunately
Lady Lufton had not hitherto heard a word of the matter. In
her eyes the sale of family property was horrible; the fact
Amantium Irse Amoris Integratio 43
that a young man with some fifteen or twenty thousand a year
should require subsidiary money was horrible ; that her own
son should have not written to her himself was horrible ; and
it was also horrible that her own pet, the clergyman whom she
had brought there to be her son’s friend, should be mixed up
in the matter ; should be cognizant of it while she was not
cognizant ; should be employed in it as a go-between and
agent in her son’s bad courses. It was all horrible, and Lady
Lufton was sitting there with a black brow and an uneasy
heart. As regarded our poor parson, we may say that in this
matter he was blameless, except that he had hitherto lacked
the courage to execute his friend’s commission.
“What is it, Fanny?” said Lady Lufton, as soon as the
door was opened ; “ 1 should have been down in half-an-hour,
if you wanted me, jastiiiia.”
“Fanny has received a letter which makes her wish to speak
to you at once,” said Lady Meredith.
“ What letter, Fanny ? ” Poor Fanny’s heart was in her
mouth ; she held it in her hand, but had not yet quite made
up her mind whether she would show it bodily to Lady
Lufton. “ From Mr. Robarts,” she said.
“ Well ; I suppose he is going to stay another week at
Chaldicotes. For my part I should be as well pleased ; ” and
Lady Lufton’s voice was not friendly, for she was thinking of
that farm in Oxfordshire. The imprudence of the young is
very sore to the prudence of their elders. No woman could
be less covetous, less grasping than Lady Lufton ; but the
sale of a portion of the old family property was to her as the
loss of her own heart’s blood.
“ Here is the letter, Lady Lufton ; perhaps you had better
read it ; ” and Fanny handed it to her, again keeping back the
postscript. She had read and re-read the letter downstairs,
but could not make out whether her husband had intended
her to show it. From the line of the argument she thought
that he must have done so. At any rate he said for himself
more than she could say for him, and so, probably, it was best
that her ladyship should see it. Lady Lufton took it, and
read it, and her face grew blacker and blacker. Her mind
was ^et against the writer before she began it, and every word
in it tended to make her feel more estranged from him. “ Oh,
he is going to the palace, is he? well; he must choose his
own friends. Harold Smith one of his party 1 It’s a pity,
my dear, he did not see Miss Proudie before he met you, he
might have lived to be the bishop’s chaplain. Gatherum
44 Framley Parsonage
Castle I You don’t mean to tell me that he is going there ?
Then I tell you fairly, Fanny, that I have done with him.”
“ Oh, Lady Lufton, don’t say that,” said Mrs. Robarts, with
tears in her eyes.
** Mamma, mamma, don’t speak in that way,” said Lady
Meredith.
“ But, my dear, what am I to say ? I must speak in that
way. You would not wish me to speak falsehoods, would you ?
A man must choose for himself, but he can’t live with two
different sets of people ; at least, not if I belong to one and
the Duke of Omnium to the other. The bishop going indeed !
If there be anything that I hale it is hypocrisy.”
“ There is no hypocrisy in that, Lady Lufton.”
“ But I say there is, Fanny. Very strange, indeed ! ‘ Put
off his defence ! * Why should a man need any defence to his
wife if he acts in a straightforward way. His own language
condemns him; ‘Wrong to stand out!’ Now, will either of
you tell me that Mr. Robarts would really have thought it
wrong to refuse that invitation ? I say that that is hypocrisy.
There is no other word for it.” By this time the poor wife,
who had been in tears, was wiping them away and preparing
for action. ‘ Lady Lufton’s extreme severity gave her courage.
She knew that it behoved her to fight for her husband when
he w^as thus attacked. Had Lady Lufton been moderate
in her remarks Mrs. Robarts would not have had a word
to say.
“ My husband may have been ill-judged,” she said, “ but he
is no hypocrite.”
“ Very well, my dear, I daresay you know better than I ;
but to me it looks extremely like hypocrisy ; eh, Justinia?”
“Oh, mamma, do be moderate.”
“ Moderate I 'fhat’s all very well. How is one to moderate
one’s feelings when one has been betrayed ? ”
“You do not mean that Mr. Robarts has betrayed you?”
said the wife.
“ Oh, no ; of course not.” And then she went on reading
the letter : “ ‘ Seem to have been standing in judgment upon
the duke.’ Might he not use the same argument as to going
into any house in the kingdom, however infamous? We
must all stand in judgment one upon another in that sense.
‘ Crawley 1 ’ Yes ; if he were a little more like Mr. Crawley
it would be a good thing for me, and for the parish, and for
too, my dear. God forgive me for bringing him here ;
all”
Amantium Irae Amoris Integratio 45
“Lady Lufton, I must say that you are very hard upon
him — very hard. I did not expect it from such a friend.”
“ My dear, you ought to know me well enough to be sure
that I shall speak my mind. ‘Written to Jones' — yes; it is
easy enough to write to poor Jones. He had better write to
Jones, and bid him do the whole duty. Then he can go and
be the duke's domestic chaplain.”
“ 1 believe my husband does as much of his own duty as
any clergyman in the whole diocese,” said Mrs. Robaris, now
again in tears.
“ And you are to take his work in the school ; you and Mrs.
Podgens. What with his curate and his wife and Mrs.
Podgens, I don't see why he should come back at all.”
“Oh, mamma,” said Justinia, “pray, pray don't be so
harsh to her.”
“Let me finish it, my dear; — oh, here I come. ‘Tell her
ladyship my whereabouts.' He little thought you'd show nic
this letter.”
“ Didn't he ? ” said Mrs. Robarts, putting out her hand to
get it back, but in vain. “I thought it was for the best; I
did indeed.”
“ I had better finish it now, if you please. What is this ?
How does he dare send his ribald jokes to me in such a
matter ? No, I do not suppose I ever shall like Dr. Proudie ;
I have never expected it. A matter of conscience with him 1
Well — well, well. Had I not read it myself, I could not have
believed it of him. I would not positively have believed it.
‘Coming from my parish he could not go to the Duke of
Omnium ! ' And it is what I would wish to have said.
People fit for this parish should not be fit for the Duke of
Omnium's house. And I had trusted that he would have
this feeling more strongly than any one else in it. I have
been deceived — that's all.”
“ He has done nothing to deceive you, Lady Lufton.”
“ I hope he will not have deceived you, my dear. ‘ More
money ; ' yes, it is probable that he will want more money.
There is your letter, Fanny. I am very sorry for it. I can
say nothing more.” And she folded up the letter and gave it
back to Mrs. Robarts.
“ I thought it right to show it to you,” said Mrs. Robarts.
“ It did not much matter whether you did or no ; of course
I must have been told.”
“ He especially begs me to tell you.”
“ Why, yes ; he could not very well have kept me in the
46 Framley Parsonage
dark in such a matter. He could not neglect his own work,
and go and live with gamblers and adulterers at the Duke
of Omnium’s without my knowing it.” And now Fanny
Robarts’s cup was full, full to the over-flowing. When she
heard these words she forgot all about Lady Lufton, all about
Lady Meredith, and remembered only her husband — that he
was her husband, and, in spite of his faults, a good and loving
husband ; — ^and that other fact also she remembered, that she
was his wife.
“ Lady Lufton,” she said, “ you forget yourself in speaking
in that way of my husband.”
“ What ! ” said her ladyship ; “ you are to show me such a
letter as that, and I am not to tell you what I think ? ”
“ Not if you think such hard things as that. Even you
are not justiiied in speaking to me in that way, and 1 will not
hear it.”
“ Heighty-tighty ! ” said her ladyship.
“Whether or no he is right in going to the Duke of
Omnium’s, I will not pretend to judge. He is the judge of his
own actions, and neither you nor I.”
“And when he leaves you with the butcher’s bill unpaid
and no mohey to buy shoes for the children, who will be the
judge then ? ”
“Not you, Lady Lufton. If such bad days should ever
come — and neither you nor I have a right to expect them — I
will not come to you in my troubles ; not after this.”
“ Very well, my dear. You may go to the Duke of Omnium
if that suits you better.”
“ Fanny, come away,” said Lady Meredith. “ Why should
you try to anger my mother ? ”
“ I don’t want to anger her ; but I won’t hear him abused in
that way without speaking up for him. If I don’t defend him,
who will ? Lady Lufton has said terrible things about him ;
and they are not true.”
“ Oh, Fanny ! ” said Justinia.
“ Very well, very well ! ” said Lady Lufton. “ This is the
sort of return that one gets.”
“ I don’t know what you mean by return. Lady Lufton : but
would you wish me to stand by quietly and hear such things
said of my husband ? He does not live with such people as
you have named. He does not neglect his duties. If every
clergyman, were as much in his parish, it would be well for
some of them. And in going to such a house as the Duke of
Omnium’s it does make a difference that he goes there in
Amantium Irae Amoris Integratio 47
company with the bishop. I can’t explain why, but I know
that it docs.”
“ Especially when the bishop is coupled up with the devil,
as Mr. Robarts has done,” said Lady Lufton ; “ he can join the
duke with them and then tliey’ll stand for the three Graces,
won’t they, Justinia ? ” And Lady Lufton laughed a bitter little
laugh at her own wit.
“ I suppose I may go now. Lady Lufton ? ”
“ Oh, yes, certainly, my dear.”
“ I am sorry if 1 have made you angry with me ; but I will
not allow any one to speak against Mr. Robarts without answer-
ing them. You have been very unjust to him; and even
though I do anger you, I must say so.”
“Come, Fanny ; this is too bad,” said Lady Lufton. “You
have been scoldinc; me for the last half-hour because I would
not congratulate you on this new friend that your husband has
made, and now you are going to begin it all over again. That
is more than 1 can stand. If you have nothing else particular
to say, you might as well leave me.” And Lady Lufton’s face
as she spoke was unbending, severe, and harsh. Mrs. Robarts
had never before been so spoken to by her old friend ; indeed,
she had never been so spoken to by any one, and she hardly
knew how to bear herself.
“ Very well. Lady Lufton,” she said ; “ then I will go. Good
bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Lady Lufton, and turning herself to her
table she began to arrange her papers. Fanny had never before
left Framley Court to go back to her own parsonage without a
warm embrace. Now she was to do so without even having
her hand taken. Had it come to this, that there was absolutely
to be a quarrel between them — ^a quarrel for ever ?
“ Fanny is going, you know, mamma,” said Lady Meredith.
“ She will be home before you are down again.”
“ I cannot help it, my dear. Fanny must do as she pleases.
I am not to be the judge of her actions. She has just told me
so.” Mrs. Robarts had said nothing of the kind, but she was
far too proud to point this out. So with a gentle step she
retreated through the door, and then Lady Meredith, having
tried what a conciliatory whisper with her mother would do,
followed her. Alas, the conciliatory whisper was altogether
ineffectual.
The two ladies said nothing as they descended the stairs, but
when they had regained the drawing-room they looked with
blank horror into each other’s faces. What were they to do
48 Framley Parsonage
now ? Of such a tragedy as this they had had no remotest
preconception. Was it absolutely the case that Fanny Robarts
was to walk out of Lady Lufton’s house as a declared enemy —
she who, before her marriage as well as since, had been
almost treated as an adopted daughter of the family?
“ Oh, Fanny, why did you answer my mother in that way ? ”
said Lady Meredith. “ You saw that she was vexed. She
had other things to vex her besides this about Mr. Robarts.”
“ And would not you answer any one who attacked Sir
George ? ”
“No, not my own mother. I would let her say what she
pleased, and leave Sir George to fight his own battles."
Ah, but it is different with you. You are her daughter,
and Sir George she would not dare to speak in that way as
to Sir George’s doings.”
“ Indeed she would, if it pleased her. I am sorry I let you
go up to her."
“ It is as well that it should be over, Justinia. As those are
her thoughts about Mr. Robarts, it is quite as well that we
should know them. Even for all that I owe to her, and all the
love I bear to you, I will not come to this house if I am to
hear my husband abused — not into any house."
“ My dearest P'anny, we all know what happens when two
angry people get together.”
“ I was not angry when I went up to her ; not in the least."
“It is no good looking back. What are we to do now,
Fanny ? ”
“ I suppose I had better go home," said Mrs. Robarts. “ I
will go and put my things up, and then I will send James for
them.”
“ Wait till after lunch, and then you will be able to kiss my
mother before you leave us.”
“ No, Justinia ; I cannot wait. I must answer Mr. Robarts
by this post, and I must think what I have to say to him. I
could not write that letter here, and the post goes at four.”
And Mrs. Robarts got up from her chair, preparatory to her
final departure.
“ I shall come to you before dinner,” said Lady Meredith ;
“ and if I can bring you good tidings, I shall expect you to come
back here with me. It is out of the question that 1 should go
away from Framley leaving you and my mother at enmity with
each other." To this Mrs. Robarts made no answer; and in
a very few minutes afterwards she was in her own nursery,
kissing her children, and teaching the elder one to say some-
Amantium Irae Amoris Integratio 49
thing about papa. But, even as she taught him, the tears
stood in her eyes, and the little fellow knew that everything
was not right. And there she sat till about two, doing little
odds and ends of things for the children, and allowing that
occupation to stand as an excuse to her for not commencing
her letter. But then there remained only two hours to her,
and it might be that the letter would be difficult in the writing
— would require thought and changes, and must needs be
coi'ied, perhaps, more than once. As to the money, that she
had in the house — as much, at least, as Mark now wanted,
though the sending of it would leave her nearly penniless.
She could, however, in case of personal need, resort to Davis
as desired by him.
So she got out her desk in the drawing-room and sat down
and wrote her lettc.*. It was difficult, though she found that it
hardly took so long as she expected. It was difficult, for she
felt bound to tell him the truth ; and yet she was anxious not
to spoil all his pleasure among his friends. She told him,
however, that l^dy Lufton w^as very angry, “unreasonably
angry, I must say,” she put in, in order to show that she had
not sided against him. “ And, indeed, we have quite quarrelled,
and this has made me unhappy, as it will you, dearest ; I know
that. But we both know how good she is at heart, and
Justinia thinks that she had other things to trouble her ; and I
hope it will all be made up before you come home ; only,
dearest Mark, pray do not be longer than you said in your last
letter.” And then there were three or four paragraphs about
the babies, and two about the schools, which 1 may as well
omit. She had just finished her letter, and was carefully
folding it for its envelope, with the two whole five-pound notes
imprudently placed within it, when she heard a footstep on the
gravel path which led up from a small wicket to the front
door. The path ran near the drawing-room window, and she
was just in time to catch a glimpse of the last fold of a passing
cloak. “It is Justinia,” she said to herself; and her heart
became disturbed at the idea of again discussing the morning’s
adventure. “ What am I to do,” she had said to herself
before, “ if she wants me to beg her pardon ? I will not own
before her that he is in the wrong.”
And then the door opened — for the visitor made her
entrance without the aid of any servant — and Lady Lufton
herself stood before her. “ Fanny,” she said at once, I have
come to beg your pardon.”
“ Oh, Lady Lufton ! ”
50 Framley Parsonage
1 was very much harassed when you came to me just now ;
— by more things than one, my dear. But, nevertheless, I
should not have spoken to you of your husband as I did, and
so I have come to beg your pardon.” Mrs. Robarts was past
answering by the time that this was said, past answering at
least in words ; so she jumped up, and with her eyes full of
tears, threw herself into her old friend’s arms. " Oh, Lady
Lufton I ” she sobbed forth again.
“ You will forgive me, won’t you ?” said her ladyship, as she
returned her young friend's caress. “Well, that’s right. I
have not been at all happy since you left my den this morning,
and 1 don't suppose you have. But, Fanny, dearest, we love
each other too well, and know each other too thoroughly, to
have a long quarrel, don't we ? ”
“ Oh, yes. Lady Lufton.”
Of course we do. Friends are not to be picked up on the
road-side every day ; nor are they to be thrown away lightly.
And now sit down, my love, and let us have a little talk.
There, I must take my bonnet off. You have pulled the
strings so that you have almost choked me.” And Lady
Lufton deposited her bonnet on the table, and seated herself
comfortably in the corner of the sofa.
“ My dear,” she said, “ there is no duty which any woman
owes to any other human being at all equal to that which she
owes to her husband, and, therefore, you were quite right to
stand up for Mr. Robarts this morning.” Upon this Mrs.
Robarts said nothing, but she got her hand within that of her
ladyship and gave it a slight squeeze.
“ And I loved you for what you were doing all the time. I
did, my dear ; though you were a little fierce, you know.
Even Justinia admits that, and she has been at me ever
since you went aw'ay. And, indeed, I did not know that it
was in you to look in that way out of those pretty eyes of
yours.”
“ Oh, Lady Lufton ! ”
“ But 1 looked fierce enough too myself, I daresay ; so wx’ll
say nothing more about that ; will we ? But now, about this
good man of yours ? ”
“ Dear Lady Lufton, you must forgive him.”
•‘Well, as you ask me, I will. We’ll have nothing more said
about the duke, either now or when he comes back ; not a
word. Let me see — he's to be back ; — when is it ? ”
“Wednesday week, I think.”
•‘ Ah, Wednesday. Well, tell him to come and dine up at
Amantium Irae Amoris Integratio 51
the house on Wednesday. He’ll be in time, I suppose, and
there shan’t be a word said about this horrid duke.”
“ I am so much obliged to you, Lady Lufton.”
“But look here, my dear; believe me, he’s better oflf
without such friends.”
“ Oh, I know he is ; much better off.”
“ Well, I’m glad you admit that, for I thought you seemed
to be in favour of the duke.”
“ Oh, no. Lady Lufton.”
“That’s right, then. And now, if you’ll take my advice,
you’ll use your influence, as a good, dear sweet wife as you
are, to prevent his going there any more. I’m an old woman
and he is a young man, and it’s very natural that he should
think me behind the times. I’m not angry at that. But he’ll
find that it’s bette*' fur him. better for him in every way, to stick
to his old friends. It will he better for his peace of mind,
better for his character as a clergyman, better for his pocket,
better for his children and for you, — and better for his eternal
welfare. The duke is not such a companion as he should
seek ; — nor if he is sought, should he allow himself to be led
away.” And then Lady Lufton ceased, and Fanny Roharts
kneeling at her feet sobbed, with her face hidden on her friend’s
knees. She had not a word now to say as to her husband’s
capability of judging for himself.
“And now I must be going again; but Justinia has made
me promise, — promise, mind you, most solemnly, that I would
have you back to dinner to-night, — by force if necessary.
It was the only way I could make my peace with her ; so you
must not leave me in the lurch.” Of course, Fanny said that
she would go and dine at Framley Court.
“ And you must not send that letter, by any means,” said
her ladyship as she was leaving the room, poking with her
umbrella at the epistle, which lay directed on Mrs. Robarts’
desk. “ 1 can understand very well what it contains. You
must alter it altogether, my dear.” And then Lady Lufton
went.
Mrs. Robarts instantly rushed to her desk and tore open her
letter. She looked at her watch and it was past four. She
had hardly begun another when the postman came. “ Oh,
Mary,” she said, “do make him wait. If he’ll wait a quarter
of an hour I’ll give him a shilling.”
“ I'here’s no need of that, ma’am. Let him have a glass
of beer.”
“ Very well, Mary ; but don’t give him too much for fear
52 Framley Parsonage '
he should drop the letters about. Til be ready in ten minutes.”
And in five minutes she had scrawled a very different sort of
a letter. But he might want the money immediately, so she
would not delay it for a day.
CHAPTER VI
MR. HAROLD SMITHES LECTURE
On the whole the party at Chaldicotes was very pleasant,
and the lime passed away quickly enough. Mr. Robarts’s
chief friend there, independently of Mr. Sowerby, was Miss
Dunstable, who seemed to take a great fiincy to him, whereas
she was not very accessible to the blandishments of
Mr. Supplehouse, nor more specially courteous even to her
host than pood manners required of her. But then
Mr. Supplehouse and Mr. Sowerby were both bachelors, while
Mark Robarts was a married man. With Mr. Sowerby
Robarts had more than one communication respecting Lord
Liifton and his alfairs, which he would willingly have avoided
had it been possible. Sowerby was one of those men who are
always mixing up business with pleasure, and who have usually
some scheme in their mind which requires forwarding. Men
of this clafss have, as a rule, no daily work, no regular routine
of labour; but it may be doubted whether they do not toil
much more incessantly than those who have.
“ Lufton is so dilatory,” Mr. Sowerby said. “ Why did he not
arrange this at once, when he promised it ? And then he is
so afraid of that old woman at Framley Court. Well, my
dear fellow, say what you will ; she is an old woman, and she’ll
never be younger. But do write to Lufton, and tell him
that this delay is inconvenient to me ; he’ll do anything for
you, I know.” Mark said that he would write, and, indeed,
did do so ; but he did not at first like the tone of the
conversation into which he was dragged. It was very painful
to him to hear Lady Lufton called an old woman, and hardly
less so to discuss the propriety of Lord Lufton’s parting with
his property. This was irksome to him, till habit made it
easy. But by degrees his feelings became less acute, and he
accustomed himself to his friend Sowerby’s mode of talking.
And thei} on Saturday afternoon they all went over to
Barchester. Harold Smith during the last forty-eight hours
had become crammed to overflowing with Sarawak, Labuan,
Mr. Harold Smith’s Lecture 53
New Guinea, and the Salomon Islands. As is the case with'
all men labouring under temporary specialities, he for the
time had faith in nothing else, and was not content that any
one near him should have any other faith. They called him
Viscount Papua and Baron Borneo ; and his wife, who headed
the joke against him, insisted on having her title. Miss
Dunstable swore that she would wed none but a South Sea
islander ; and to Mark was offered the income and duties of
Bishop of Spices. Nor did the Proudie family set them-
selves against these little sarcastic quips with any over-
whelming severity. It is sweet to unbend oneself at the
proper opporiunity, and this was the proper opportunity for
Mrs, Proudie’s unbending. No mortal can be seriously wise
at all hours ; and in these happy hours did that usually wise
mortal, the bishop, lay a:ude for awhile his serious wisdom.
‘*We think ol dining at five to-morrow, my Lady Papua,”
said the facetious bishop ; “ will that suit his lordship and
the affairs of State ? he 1 he ! he ! ” And the good prelate
laughed at the fun. How plea‘?antly young men and women
of fifty or thereabouts can joke and flirt and poke their fun
about, laughing and holding their sides, dealing in little
innuendoes and rejoicing in nicknames, when tliey have no
Mentors of twenty-five or thirty near them, to keep them in
order ! The vicar of Framley might perhaps have been
regarded as such a Mentor, were it not for that capability of
adapting himself to the company immediately around him on
which he so much piqued himself. He therefore also talked
to my Lady Papua, and was jocose about tfie Baron, — not
altogether to the satisfaction of Mr. Harold Smith himself.
For Mr, Harold Smith was in earnest, and did not quite relish
these jocundities. He had an idea that he could in about
three months talk the British world into civilizing New
Guinea, and that the world of Barsetshire would be made to
go with him by one nighfs efforts. He did not understand
why others should be less serious, and was inclined to resent
somewhat stiffly the amenities of our friend Mark,
“ We must not keep the Baron waiting,” said Mark, as they
were preparing to start for Barchester.
“ I don’t know what you mean by the Baron, sir,” said
Harold Smith, “But perhaps the joke will be against you,
when you are getting up into your pulpit to-morrow, and
sending the hat round among the clod-hoppers of Chaldi-
cotes,”
“ Those who live in dass houses shouldn’t throw stones j eh,
54 Framley Parsonage
Baron?” said Miss Dunstable. "Mr. Robarts’s sermon will
be too near akin to your lecture to allow of his laughing.”
** If we can do nothing towards instructing the outer world
till it's done by the parsons,” said Harold Smith, “ the outei-
world will have to wait a long time I fear.”
“ Nobody can do anything of that kind short of a member
of parliament and a would-be minister,” whispered Mrs. Harold.
And so they were all very pleasant together, in spite of a little
fencing with edge-tools ; and at three o'clock the cortege of
carriages started for Barchester, that of the bishop, of course,
leading the way. His lordship, however, was not in it.
“Mrs. Proudie, Pm sure you'll let me go with you,” said
Miss Dunstable, at the last moment, as she came down the
big stone steps. “ I want to hear the rest of that story about
Mr. Slope.” Now this upset everything. The bishop was to
have gone with his wife, Mrs. Smith, and Mark Robarts ; and
Mr. Sowerby had so arranged matters that he could have
accompanied Miss Dunstable in his phaeton. But no one ever
dreamed of denying Miss Dunstable anything. Of course
Mark gave way ; but it ended in the bishop declaring that he
had no special predilection for his own carriage, which he did
in compliance with a glance from his wife’s eye. Then other
changes of course followed, and, at last, Mr. Sowerby and
Harold Smith were the joint occupants of the phaeton. The
poor lecturer, as he seated himself, made some remark such as
those he had been making for the last two days — for out of a
full heart the mouth speaketh. But he spoke to an impatient
listener. “ D— : — the South Sea islanders,” said Mr, Sowerby.
“ You’ll have it all your own way in a few minutes, like a bull
in a china-shop ; but for Heaven’s sake let us have a little
peace till that time comes.” It appeared that Mr. Sowerby’s
little plan of having Miss Dunstable for his companion was not
quite insignificant ; and, indeed, it may be said that but few of
his little plans were so. At the present moment he flung him-
self back in the carriage and prepared for sleep. He could
further no plan of his by a tete-h-Ute conversation with his
brother-in-law. And then Mrs. Proudie began her story about
Mr. Slope, or rather recommenced it. She was very fond of
talking about this gentleman, who had once been her pet
chaplain, but was now her bitterest foe; and in telling the
story, she had sometimes to whisper to Miss Dunstable, for
there were one or two fie-fie little anecdotes about a married
lady, not altogether fit for young Mr. Robarts’s ears. But
Mrs. Harold Smith insisted on having them out loud, and
Mr. Harold Smith’s Lecture 55
'^iss Dunstable would gratify that lady in spite of Mrs.
^Proudie*s winks.
I? “ What, kissing her hand, and he a clergyman ! ” said Miss
..^"ll^unstable. “ I did not think they ever did such things, Mr.
Robarts.”
“ Still waters run deepest,” said Mrs. Harold Smith.
“ Hush-b-h,” looked, rather than spoke, Mrs. Proudie.
“The grief of spirit which that bad man caused me nearly
broke my heart, and all the while, you know, he was court-
ing — ” and then Mrs. Proudie whispered a name.
“ What, the dean*s wife ! ” shouted Miss Dunstable, in a
voice which made the coachman of the next carriage give a
chuck to his horses as he overheard her.
“ The archdeacon’s sister-in-law 1 ” screamed Mrs. Harold
Smith.
“ What might he not have attempted next ? ” said Miss
Dunstable.
“ She wasn’t the dean’s wife then, you know,” said Mrs.
Proudie, explaining.
“ Well, you’ve a gay set in the chapter, I must say,” said
Miss Dunstable. “You ought to make one of them m Bar-
chester, Mr. Robarts.”
“ Only perhaps Mrs. Robarts might not like it,” said Mrs.
Harold Smith.
“ And then the schemes which he tried on with the bishop ! ”
said Mrs. Proudie.
“ It’s all fair in love and war, you know,” said Miss Dun-
stable.
“But he little knew whom he had to deal with when he
be^an that,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“The bishop wa.s too many for him,” suggested Mrs. Harold
Smith, very maliciously.
“ If the bishop was not, somebody else was ; and he was
obliged to leave Barchestcr in utter disgrace. He has since
married the wife of some tallow-chandler.”
“ The wife ! ” said Miss Dunstable. “ What a man I ”
“ Widow, I mean ; but it’s all one to him.”
“ The gentleman was clearly born when Venus was in the
ascendant,” said Mrs. Smith. “ You clergymen usually are, I
Lbelieve, Mr. Robarts.” So that Mrs. Proudie’s carriage was by
[no mcjans the dullest as they drove into Barchester that day ;
*^and by degrees our friend Mark became accustomed to his
companions, and before they reached the palace he ac-
knowledged to himself that Miss Dunstable was very good
C i8x
56 Framley Parsonage
fun. We cannot linger over the bishop’s dinner, though it w
very good of its kind ; and as Mr. Sowerby contrived to s
next to Miss Dunstable, thereby overturning a little schen
made by Mr. Supplehouse, he again shone forth in uncloiide* ^
good humour. But Mr. Harold Smith became impatien.
immediately on the withdrawal of the cloth. The lecture wa.-
to begin at seven, and according to his watch that hour had
already come. He declared that Sowerby and Supplehouse
were endeavouring to delay matters in order that the Par-
chesterians might become vexed and impatient ; and so the
bishoj) was not allowed to exercise his hospitality in true
episcopal fashion.
“You forget, Sowerby," said Supplehouse, “that the world
here for the last fortnight has been looking forward to nothing
else."
“ The world shall be gratified at once," said Mrs. Harold,
obeying a little nod from Mrs. Proudie. “ Come, my dear,”
and she took hold of Miss Dunstable’s arm, “ don’t let us keep
Barchcster waiting. We will be ready in a quarter-of an-hour,
shall we not, Mrs. Proudie?” and so they sailed off.
“And we shall have time for one glass of claret,” said the
bishop.
“'I'here; that’s seven by the cathedral,” said Harold Smith,
jumping up from his chair as he heard the clock. “If the
people have come it would not be right in me to keep them
waiting, and I shall go."
“ J ust one glass of claret, Mr. Smith, and we’ll be ofiF," said
the bishop.
“ Those women will keep me an hour," said Harold, filling
his glass, and drinking it standing. “ They do it on purpose."
He was thinking of his wife, but it seemed to the bishop as
though his guest were actually speaking of Mrs. Proudie.
It was rather late when they all found themselves in the big
room of the Mechanics’ Institute ; but I do not know whether
this on the whole did them any harm. Most of Mr. Smith’s
hearers, excepting the party from the palace, were Barchester
tradesmen with their wives and families ; and they waited, not
impatiently, for the big people. And then the lecture was
gratis, a fact which is always borne in mind by an Englisnman
when he comes to reckon up and calculate the way in which
he is treated. When he pays his money, then he tak ' his
choice ; he niay be impatient or not as he likes. His s^ e of
justice teaches him so much, and in accordance with thi^*^ '«nse
he usually acts. So the people on the benches rose gi& ^jusly
Mr. Harold Smith’s Lecture 57
^hen the palace party entered the room. Seats for them had
l)een kept in the front. There were three armchairs, which were
lulled, after some little hesitation, by the bishop, Mrs. Proudie,
Miss Dunstable — Mrs. Smith positively declining to take
one of them ; though, as she admitted, her rank as Lady Papua
^of the islands did give her some claim. And this remark, as it
> was made quite out loud, reached Mr. Smith’s ears as he stood
behind a hale table on a small raised dais, holding his white
k:.d gloves ; and it annoyed him and rather put him out. He
did not like that joke about Lady Papua. And then the others
of the party sat upon a front bench covered with red cloth.
“We shall find this very hard and very narrow about the
second hour,” said Mr. Sowerby, and Mr. Smith on his dais
again overheard the words, and dashed his gloves down to the
table. He felt that al.^ the room would hear it.
And there were one or two gentlemen on the second seat
who shook hands with some of our party. There was Mr.
Thorne, of Ullathorne, a good-natured old bachelor, whose
residence was near enough to Barchester to allow of his coming
in without much personal inconvenience ; and next to him was
Mr. Harding, an old clergyman of the chapter, with whom Mrs.
Proudie shook hands very graciously, making way for him to
seat himself close behind her if he would so please. But Mr.
Harding did not so please. Having paid his respects to the
bishop he returned quietly to the side of his old friend Mr.
Thorne, thereby angering Mrs. Proudie, as might easily be seen
. by her face. And Mr. Chadwick also was there, the episcopal
man of business for the diocese ; but he also adhered to the
two gentlemen above named. And now that the bishop and
the ladies had taken their places, Mr. Harold Smith relifted his
gloves and again laid them down, hummed three times distinctly,
and then began.
“It was,” he said, “ the most peculiar characteristic of the
present era in the British islands that those who were high
placed before the world in rank, wealth, and education were
willing to come forward and give their time and knowledge
without fee or reward, for the advantage and amelioration of
those who did not stand so high in the social scale.” And
then he paused for a moment, during which Mrs. Smith
remarked to Miss Dunstable that that was pretty well for
a h'^'^nning ; and Miss Dunstable replied, “ that as for herself
sh^. :^t very grateful to rank, wealth, and education.” Mr.
So •"•'by winked to Mr. Supplehouse, who opened his eyes very
wiu ind shrugged his shoulders. But the Barchesterians
6o Framley Parsonage
civilization to care much about it ; and the three arm-chairs, or
rather that special one which contained Mrs. Proudie, con-
sidered that there was a certain heathenness, a pagan
sentimentality almost amounting to infidelity, contained in the
lecturer's remarks, with which she, a pillar of the Church, could
not put up, seated as she was now in public conclave.
“ It is to civilization that we must look,” continued Mr.
Harold Smith, descending from poetry to prose as a lecturer
well knows how, and thereby showing the value of both— “ for
any material progress in these islands ; and ”
“ And to Christianity,” shouted Mrs. Proudie, to the great
amazement of the assembled people, and to the thorough
wakening of the bishop, who, jumping up in his chair at the
sound of the well-known voice, exclaimed, “ Certainly, cer-
tainly.”
“ Hear, hear, hear,” said those on the benches who particularly
belonged to Mrs. Proudie's school of divinity in the city, and
among the voices was distinctly heard that of a new verger
in whose behalf she had greatly interested herself.
“Oh, yes, Christianity of course,” said Harold Smith, upon
whom the interruption did not seem to operate favourably.
“ Christianity and Sabbath-day observance,” exclaimed Mrs.
Proudie, who, now that she had obtained the ear of the public,
seemed well inclined to keep it. Let us never forget that
these islanders can never prosper unless they keep the Sabbath
holy.” Poor Mr. Smith, having been so rudely dragged from
his high horse, was never able to mount it again, and completed
the lecture in a manner not at all comfortable to himself.
He had there, on the table before him, a huge bundle of
statistics, with which he had meant to convince the reason of
his hearers, after he had taken full possession of their feelings.
But they fell very dull and flat. And at the moment when he
was interrupted, he was about to explain that that material
progress to which he had alluded could not be attained without
money ; and that it behoved them, the people of Barchester
before him, to come forward with their purses like men and
brothers. He did also attempt this ; but from the moment of
that fatal onslaught from the arm-chair, it was clear to him, and
to every one else, that Mrs. Proudie was now the hero of the
hour. His time liad gone by, and the people of Barchester did
not care a straw for his appeal. From these causes the lecture
was over full twenty minutes earlier than any one had expected,
to the great delight of Messrs. Sowerby and Supplehouse, who,
on that evening, moved and carried a vote of thanks to Mrs.
Sunday Morning 6i
Proudie. For they had gay doings yet before they went to
their beds.
“ Robarts, here one moment,” Mr. Sowerby said, as they
were standing at the door of the Mechanics* Institute. “ Don’t
yon go off with Mr. and Mrs. Bishop. We are going to have a
little supper at the Dragon of Wantly, and, after what we have
gone through, upon my word we want it. You can tell one of
the palace servants to let you in.” Mark considered the pro-
posal wistfully. He would fain have joined the supper party
had he dared ; but he, like many others of his cloth, had the
fear of Mrs. Proudie before his eyes. And a very merry supper
they had ; but poor Mr. Harold Smith was not the merriest of
the party.
CHAPTER VII
SUNDAY MORNING
It was, perhaps, quite as well on the whole for Mark
Robarts, that he did not go to that supper party. It was
eleven o’clock before they sat down, and nearly two before the
gentlemen were in bed. It must be remembered that he had
to preach, on the coming Sunday morning, a charity sermon
on behalf of a mission to Mr. Harold Smith’s islanders ; and,
to tell the truth, it was a task for which he had now very little
inclination. When first invited to do this, he had regarded
liie task seriously enough, as he always did regard such work,
and he completed his sermon for the occasion before he left
Framley ; but, since that, an air of ridicule had been thrown
over the whole affair, in which he had joined without much
thinking of his own sermon, and this made him now heartily
wish that he could choose a discourse upon any other subject.
He knew well that the very points on which he had most
insisted, were those which had drawn most mirth from Miss
Dunstable and Mrs. Smith, and had oftenest provoked his own
laughter ; and how was he now to preach on those matters in
a fitting mood, knowing, as he would know, that tiiose two
ladies would be looking at him, would endeavour to catch his
eye, and would turn him into ridicule as they had already
turned the lecturer ? In this he did injustice to one of the
ladies, unconsciously. Miss Dunstable, with all her aptitude
for mirth, and we may almost fairly say for frolic, was in no
way inclined to ridicule religion or anything which she thought
62 Framley Parsonage
to appertain to it. It may be presumed that among such
things she did not include Mrs. Proudie, as she was willing
enough to laugh at that lady ; but Mark, had he known her
better, might have been sure that she would have sat out his
sermon with perfect propriety.
As it was, however, he did feel considerable uneasiness ; and
in the morning he got up early, with the view of seeing what
might be done in the way of emendation. He cut out those
parts which referred most specially to the islands, — he rejected
altogether those names over which they had all laughed togethei
so heartily, — and he inserted a string of general remarks, very
useful, no doubt, which he flattered himself would rob his
sermon of all similarity to Harold Smith’s lecture. He had,
perhaps, hoped, when writing it, to create some little sensation;
but now he would be quite satisfied if it passed without
remark. But his troubles for that Sunday were destined to be
many. It had been arranged that the party at the hotel should
breakfast at eight and start at half-past eight punctually, so as
to enable them to reach Chaldicotes in ample time to arrange
their dresses before they went to church. The church stood
in the grounds, close to that long formal avenue of lime-trees,
but within the front gates. Their walk, therefore, after reaching
Mr. Sowerby^s house, would not be long.
Mrs. Proudie, who was herself an early body, would not hear
of her guest — and he a clergyman — going out to the inn for his
breakfast on a Sunday morning. As regarded that Sabbath-
day journey to Chaldicotes, to that she had given her assent,
no doubt with much uneasiness of mind ; but let them have as
little desecration as possible. It was therefore an understood
thing that he was to return with his friends ; but he should not
go without the advantage of family prayers and family break-
fast. And so Mrs. Proudie on retiring to rest gave the
necessary orders, to the great annoyance of her household.
To the great annoyance, at least, of her servants ! The
bishop himself did not make his appearance till a much later
hour. He in all things now supported his wife’s rule ; in all
things, now, I say ; for there had been a moment, when in the
first flush and pride of his episcopacy, other ideas had tilled
his mind. Now, however, he gave no opposition to that good
woman with whom Providence had blessed him ; and in return
for such conduct that good woman administered in all things to
his little personal comforts. With what surprise did the bishop
now look b:ick upon that unholy war which he had once been
tempted to wage against the wife of his bosom ? Nor did any
Sunday Morning 63
of the Miss Proudies show themselves at that early hour.
They, perhaps, were absent on a different ground. With them
Mrs. Proudie had not been so successful as with the bishop.
They had wills of their own which became stronger and
stronger every day. Of the three with whom Mrs. Proudie
was blessed one was already in a position to exercise that will
in a legitimate way over a very excellent young clergyman in
the diocesv., the Rev. Optimus Grey ; but the other two, having
as yet no such opening for their powers of command, were
perliaps a little too much inclined to keep themselves in
practice at home. But at half-past seven punctually Mrs.
Proudie was there, and so was the domestic chaplain ; so was
Mr. Robarts, and so were the household servants — all except-
ing one lazy recreant. “ Where is Thomas ? ” said she of the
Argus eyes, standing rn with her book of family prayers in her
hand. “ So pic ase you, ma’am, Tummas be bad with the
tooth-ache.” “ Tooth-ache ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Proudie ; but
her eyes said more terrible things than that. “ Let Thomas
come to me before church.” And then they proceeded to
players. These were read by the chaplain, as it was proper
and decent that they sliould be ; but 1 cannot but think that
Mrs. Proudie a little exceeded her office in taking upon herself
to pronounce the blessing when the prayers were over. She
did it, however, in a clear, sonorous voice, and perhaps with
more personal dignity than was within the chaplain’s compass.
Mrs, Proudie was rather stern at breakfast, and the vicar of
Framley felt an unaccountable desire to get out of the house.
In the first place she was not dressed with her usual punctilious
attention to the proprieties of her high situation. It was
evident that there was to be a further toilet before she sailed
up the middle of the cathedral choir. She had on a large
loose cap with no other strings than those which were wanted
for tying it beneath her chin, a cap with which the household
and the chaplain were well acquainted, but which seemed
ungracious in the eyes of Mr. Robarts after all the well-
dressed holiday doings of the last week. She wore also a
large, loose, dark-coloured wrapper, which came well up round
her neck, and which was not buoyed out, as were her dresses
in general, with an under mechanism of petticoats. It
clung to her closely, and added to the inflexibility of her
general appearance. And then she had encased her feet in
large carpet slippers, which no doubt were comfortable, but
which struck her visitor as being strange and unsightly. Do
you find a difficulty in getting; your people together for early
64 Framley Parsonage
morning prayers ? ” she said, as she commenced her operations
mth the teapot.
I can’t say that I do,* said Mark. “ But then we are
seldom so early as this.”
“ Parish clergymen should be early, I think,” said she. “ It
sets a good example in the village.”
“ I am thinking of having morning prayers in the church,”
said Mr. Robarts.
“ That’s nonsense,” said Mrs. Proudie, “ and usually means
worse than nonsense. I know what that comes to. If you
have three services on Sunday and domestic prayers at home,
you do very well.” And so saying she handed him his cup.
“ But 1 have not three services on Sunday, Mrs. Proudie.”
“Then I think you should have. Where can the poor
people be so well off on Sundays as in church ? The bishop
intends to express a very strong opinion on this subject in his
next charge; and then 1 am sure you will attend to his
wishes.” To this Mark made no answer, but devoted him-
self to his egg.
“I suppose you have not a very large establishment at
Framley ? ” asked Mrs. Proudie.
“ What, at the parsonage ? ”
“ Yes ; you live at the parsonage, don’t you ? ”
“ Certainly — well ; not very large, Mrs. Proudie ; just
enough to do the work, make things comfortable, and look
after the children.”
“It is a very fine living,” said she ; “ very fine. I don’t
remember that we have anything so good ourselves, — except
it is Plumstead, the archdeacon’s place. He has managed to
butter his bread pretty well.”
“ His father was bishop of Barchester.”
“ Oh, yes, I know all about him. Only for that he would
barely have risen to be an archdeacon, I suspect. Let me
see ; yours is 900/., is it not, Mr. Robarts ? And you such
a young man ! I suppose you have insured your life highly ? ”
“ Pretty well, Mrs. Proudie.”
“And then, too, your wife had some little fortune, had she
not ? We cannot all fall on our feet like that ; can we, Mr.
White ? ” and Mrs. Proudie in her playful way appealed to
the chaplain. Mrs. Proudie was an imperious woman; but
then so also was Lady Lufton ; and it may therefore be said
that Mr. Robarts ought to have been accustomed to feminine
domination ; but as he sat there munching his toast he could
not but make a comparison between the two. Lady Lufton
Sunday Morning 65
in her little attempts sometimes angered him; but he cer*
tainly thought, comparing the lay lady and the clerical
together, that the rule of the former was the lighter and the
pleasanter. But then Lady Lufton had given him a living
and a wife, and Mrs. Proudie had given him nothing.
Immediately after breakfast Mr. Robarts escaped to the
Dragon of Wantly, partly because he had had enough of the
matutinal Mrs. Proudie, and partly also in order that he
might hurry his friends there. He was already becoming
fidgety about the time, as Harold Smith had been on the
preceding evening, and he did not give Mrs. Smith credit
for much punctuality. When he arrived at the inn he asked
if they had done breakfast, and was immediately told that
not one of them was yet down. It was already half-past eight,
and they ought tc be now under weigh on the road. He
immediately went to Mr. Sowerby’s room, and found that
gentleman shaving himself. “Don’t be a bit uneasy,” said
Mr. Sowerby. “ You and Smith shall have my phaeton, and
those horses will take you there in an hour. Not, however,
but what we shall all be in time. We’ll send round to the
whole party and ferret them out.” And then Mr. Sowerby,
having evoked manifold aid with various peals of the bell,
sent messengers, male and female, flying to all the different
rooms.
“ I think ril hire a gig and go over at once,” said Mark.
“It would not do for me to be late, you know.”
“ It won’t do for any of us to be late ; and it’s all nonsense
about hiring a gig. It would be just throwing a sovereign
away, and we should pass you on the road. Go down and see
that the tea is made, and all that ; and make them have the
bill ready ; and, Robarts, you may pay it too, if you like it.
But I believe we may as well leave that to Baron Borneo —
eh ? ” And then Mark did go down and make the tea, and
he did order the bill ; and then he walked about the room,
looking at his watch, and nervously waiting for the footsteps
of his friends. And as he was so employed, he bethought him-
self whether it was fit that he should be so doing on a Sunday
morning ; whether it was good that he should be waiting there,
in painful anxiety, to gallop over a dozen miles in order that
he might not be too late with his sermon ; whether his own
snug room at home, with Fanny opposite to him, and his
bairns crawling on the floor, with his own preparations for his
own quiet service, and the warm pressure of Lady Lufton’s
hand when that service should be over, was not better than all
66 Framley Parsonage
this. He could not afford not to know Harold Smith, and
Mr. Sowerby, and the Duke of Omnium, he had said to him-
self. He had to look to rise in the world, as other men did.
But what pleasure had come to him as yet from these
intimacies? How much had he hitherto done towards his
rising ? To speak the truth he was not over well pleased
with himself, as he made Mrs. Harold Smith’s tea and
ordered Mr. Sowerby’s mutton-chops on that Sunday morning.
At a little after nine they all assembled ; but even then he
could not make the ladies understand that there was any cause
for hurry; at least Mrs. Smith, who was the leader of the party,
would not understand it. When Mark again talked of hiring a
gig. Miss Dunstable indeed said that she would join him ; and
seemed to be so far earnest in the matter that Mr. Sowerby
hurried through his second egg in order to prevent such a
catastrophe. And then Mark absolutely did order the gig ;
whereupon Mrs. Smith remarked that in such case she need not
hurry herself ; but the waiter brought up word that all the
horses of the hotel were out, excepting one pair neither of
which could go in single harness. Indeed, half of their stable
establishment was already secured by ^fr. Sowerby’s own
party. “ Then let me have the pair,” said Mark, almost frantic
with delay.
“ Nonsense, Robarts ; we are ready now. He won’t want
them, Jamts. Come, Supplehoiise, have you done ? ”
“ Then I am to hurry myself, am I ? ” said Mrs. Harold
Smith. “What changeable creatures you men are! May I be
allowed half a cup more tea, Mr. Robarts ? ” Mark, who was
now really angry, turned away to the window. There was no
charity in these people, he said to himself. They knew the
nature of his distress, and yet they only laughed at him. He
did not, i)erhaps, reflect that he had assisted in the joke against
Harold Smith on the previous evening. “James,” said he,
turning to the waiter, “ let me have that pair of horses immedi-
ately, if you please.”
“Yes, sir; round in fifteen minutes, sir: only Ned, sir, the
post-boy, sir ; I fear he’s at his breakfast, sir ; but we’ll have
him here in less than no time, sir ! ” But before Ned and the
pair were there, Mrs. Smith had absolutely got her bonnet on,
and at ten they started. Mark did share the phaeton with
Harold Smith, but the phaeton did not go any faster than the
other carriages. They led the way, indeed, but that was all ;
and when the vicar’s watch told him that it was eleven, they
were still a mile from Chaldicotes gate, although the horses
Sunday Morning 67
were in a lather of steam ; and they had only just entered the
village when the church bells ceased to be heard.
“Come, you are in time, after all,” said Harold Smith.
“ Better time than I was last night.” Robarts could not
explain to him that the entry of a clergyman into church, of a
clergyman who is going to assist in the service, should not be
made at the last minute, that it should be staid and decorous,
and not done in scrambling haste, with running feet and scant
breath.
“I suppose we’ll stop here, sir,” said the postilion, as he
pulled up his horses short at the church-door, in the midst of
the people who were congregated together ready for the service.
But Mark had not anticipated being so la^e, and said at first
that it was necessary that he should go on to the house ; then,
when the horses had again begun to move, he remembered
that he could send for his gown, and as he got out of the
carriage he gave his orders accordingly. And now the other
two carriages were there, and so there was a noise and
confusion at the door — very unseemly, as Mark felt it; and
the gentlemen spoke in loud voices, and Mrs. Harold Smith
declared that she had no prayer-book, and was much too tired
to go in at present ; she would go home and rest herself, she
said. And two other ladies of the party did so also, leaving
Miss Dunstable to go alone ; — for which, however, she did not
care one button. And then one of the party, who had a nasty
habit of swearing, cursed at something as he walked in close to
Mark’s elbow ; and so they made their way up the church as the
absolution was being read, and Mark Robarts felt thoroughly
ashamed of himself. If his rising in the world brought him in
contact with such things as these, would it not be better for
him that he should do without rising ? His sermon went off
without any special notice. Mrs. Harold Smith was not there,
much to his satisfaction ; and the others who were did not
seem to pay any special attention to it. The subject had lost
its novelty, except with the ordinary church congregation, the
farmers and labourers of the parish ; and the “ quality ” in
the squire’s great pew were content to show their sympathy by
a moderate subscription. Miss Dunstable, however, gave a ten-
pound note, which swelled up the sum total to a respectable
amount — for such a place as Chaldicotes.
“And now I hope I may never hear another word about
New Guinea,” said Mr. Sowerby, as they all clustered round
the drawing-room fire after church. “ That subject may be
regarded as having been killed and buried ; eh, Harold ? ”
68 Framley Parsonage
“ Certainly murdered last night,” said Mrs. Harold, “ by that
awful woman, Mrs. Proudie.”
** I wonder you did not make a dash at her and pull her out
of the arm-chair,” said Miss Dunstable. “ I was expecting
it, and thought that 1 should come to grief in the scrimmage.”
“ I never knew a lady do such a brazen-faced thing before,”
said Miss Kerrigy, a travelling friend of Miss Dunstable’s.
“ Nor I — never ; in a public place, too,” said Dr. Easy man,
a medical gentleman, who also often accompanied her.
“ As for brass,” said Mr. Supplehouse, “ she would never stop
at anything for want of that. It is well that she has enough,
for the poor bishop is but badly provided.”
“ I hardly hear^ what it was she did say,” said Harold
Smith ; “ so I could not answer her, you know. Something
about Sundays, I believe.”
“ She hoped you would not put the South Sea islanders up
to Sabbath travelling,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“ And specially begged that you would establish Lord’s-day
schools,” said Mrs. Smith ; and then they all went to work and
picked Mrs. Proudie to pieces from the top ribbon of her cap
down to the sole of her slipper.
“ And then she expects the poor parsons to fall in love with
her daughters. That’s the hardest thing of all,” said Miss
Dunstable. But, on the whole, when our vicar went to bed
he did not feel that he had spent a profitable Sunday.
CHAPTER VIII
GATHERUM CASTLE
On the Tuesday morning Mark did receive his wife’s letter
and the ten-pound note, whereby a strong proof was given of
the honesty of the post-ofhce people in Barsetshire. ^That letter,
written as it had been in a hurry, while Robin post-boy was
drinking a single mug of beer, — well, what of it if it was half
tilled a second time ? — was nevertheless eloquent of his wife’s
love and of her great triumph. I have only half a moment to
send you the money,” she said, “for the postman is here
waiting. When I see you I’ll explain why I am so hurried.
Let me know that you get it safe. It is all right now, and
Lady Luftun was here not a minute ago. She did not cjuite
like it ; about Gatherum Castle I mean ; but you’ll hear nothing
about it. Only remember \h 2 Xyou must dine, at Framley Court on
Gatherum Castle 69
Wednesday week. I have promised for you. You will; won’t
you, dearest ? I shall come and fetch you away if you attempt
to stay longer than you have said. But Tm sure you won’t.
God bless you, my own one! Mr. Jones gave us the same
seiinon he preached the second Sunday after Easter. Twice in
the same year is too often. God bless you ! The children are
quite well, Mark sends a big kiss. — Your own f .”
Robarts, as he read this letter and crumpled the note up into ,
his pocket, felt that it was much more satisfactory than he
deserved. He knew that there must have been a fight, and
that his wife, fighting loyally on his behalf, had got the
best of it ; and he knew also that her victory had not
been owing to the goodness of her cause. He frequently
declared to himself that he would not be afraid of Lady
Lufton; but nev'-ith^less these tidings that no reproaches
were to be made to him afforded him great relief. On the
following Friday they all went to the duke’s, and found that the
bishop and Mrs. Proudie were there befoie them ; as were also
sundry other people, mostly of some note either in the
estimation of the world at large or of that of West Barsetshire.
Lord Boanerges was there, an old man wh.o would have his own
way in everything, and who was regarded by all men —
apparently even by the duke himself— as an intellectual king,
by no means of the constitutional kind — as an intellectual
emperor, rather, who took upon himself to rule all questions of
mind without the assistance of any ministers whatever. And
Baron Brawl was of the party, one of her Majesty’s puisne
judges, as jovial a guest as ever entered a country house ; but
given to be rather sharp withal in his jovialities. And there
was Mr. Green Walker, a young but rising man, the same who
lectured not long since on a popular subject to his constituents
at the Crewe J unction. Mr. Green Walker was a nephew of the
Marchioness of Hartletop, and the Marchioness of Hartletop
was a friend of the Duke of Omnium’s. Mr. Mark Robarts was
certainly elated when he ascertained who composed the company
of which he had been so earnestly pressed to make a portion.
Would it have been wise in him to forego this on account of
the prejudices of Lady Lufton ?
As the guests were so many and so great, the huge front
portals of Gatherum Castle were thrown open, and the vast hall,
adorned with trophies — with marble busts from Italy and
armour from Wardour Street — was thronged with gentlemen
and ladies, and gave forth unwonted echoes to many a footstep.
His grace himself, when Mark arrived there with Sowerby and
70 Framley Parsonage
Miss Dunstable — for in this instance Miss Dunstable did travel
in the phaeton, while Mark occupied a seat in the dicky — his
grace himself was at this moment in the drawing-room, and
nothing could exceed his urbanity.
“ Oh, Miss Dunstable,” he said, taking that lady by the hand,
and leading her up to the fire, “ now I feel for the first time
that Gatherum Castle has not been built for nothing.”
“ Nobody ever supposed it was, your grace,” said Miss
Dunstable. “I am sure the architect did not think so when
his bill was paid.” And Miss Dunstable put her toes up on
the fender to warm them with as much self-possession as
though her father had been a duke also, instead of a quack
doctor.
“ We have given the strictest orders about the parrot,” said
the duke
“ Ah ! but I have not brought him after all,” said Miss
Dunstable.
“and I have had an aviary built on purpose, — just such
as parrots are used to in their own country. Well, Miss
Dunstable, 1 do call that unkind. Is it too late to send for
him ? ”
“He and Dr. Easyman are travelling together. The truth
was, I could not rob the doctor of his companion.”
“ Why ? I have had another aviary built for him. I declare,
Miss Dunstable, the honour you are doing me is shorn of half
its glory. But the poodle — I still trust in the poodle.”
“And your grace's trust shall not in that rcsi)ect be in vain.
Where is he, I wonder?” And Miss Dunstable looked round
as though she expected tliat somebody would certainly have
brought her dog in after her. “ 1 declare I must go and look for
him, — only think if they were to put him among your grace's
dogs, — how his morals would be destroyed ! ”
“ Miss Dunstable, is that intended to be personal ? ” but
the lady had turned away from the fire, and the duke was able
to welcome his other guests. This he did with much courtesy.
“ Sowerby,” he said, “ I am glad to find that you have survived
the lecture, j I can assure you I had fears for you.”
“ I was brought back to life after considerable delay by the
administration of tonics at the Dragon of Wantly. Will your
grace allow me to present to you Mr. Robarts, who on that
occasion was not so fortunate. It was found necessary to
carry him olj to the palace, where he was obliged to undergo
very vigorous treatment.” And then the duke shook hands
with Mr. Robarts, assuring him that he was most happy to
Gatherum Castle 71
make his acquaintance. H e had often heard of him since he
came into the county ; and then he asked after Lord Lufton,
regretting that he had been unable to induce his lordship to
come to Gatherum Castle.
“ But you had a diversion at the lecture, I am told,” con-
tinued the duke. “ There was a second performer, was there
not, who almost eclipsed poor Harold Smith ? ” And then Mr.
Sowerby gave an amusing sketch of the little Proudie episode.
“ It has, of course, ruined your brother-in-law for ever as a
lecturer,” said the duke, laughing.
” If so, we shall feel ourselves under the deepest obligations
to Mrs. Proudie,” said Mr. Sowerby. And then Harold Smith
himself came up and received the duke's sincere and hearty
congratulations on the success of his enterprise at Barchester.
Mark Robarts had ntrw turned away, and his attention was
suddenly arrested by the loud voice of Miss Dunstable, who
had stumbled across some very dear friends in her passage
through the rooms, and who by no means hid from the public
her delight upon the occasion.
“Well — well — well!” she exclaimed, and then she seized
upon a very quiet-looking, well-dressed, attractive young woman
who was walking towards her, in company with a gentleman.
The gentleman and lady, as it turned out, were husband and
wife. “ Well — well — well 1 I hardly hoped for this.” And
then she took hold of the lady and kissed her enthusiastically,
and after that grasped both the gentleman's hands, shaking
them stoutly,
“ And what a deal I shall have to say to you ! ” she went on.
“ You'll upset all my other plans. But, Mary, my dear, how
long are you going to stay here ? I go — let me see — I forget
when, but it's all put down in a book upstairs. But the next
stage is at Mrs. Proudie's. I shan’t meet you there, I suppose.
And now, Frank, how's the governor?” The gentleman
called Frank declared that the governor was all right — “ mad
about the hounds, of course, you know.”
“ Well, my dear, that's better than the hounds being mad
about him, like the poor gentleman they've put into a statue.
But talking of hounds, Frank, how badly they manage their
foxes at Chaldicotes I I was out hunting all one day ”
“ You out hunting 1 ” said the lady called Mary.
“ And why shouldn't I go out hunting ? I'll tell you what,
Mrs. Proudie was out hunting too. But they didn't catch a
single fox ; and, if you must have the truth, it seemed to me
to be rather slow.”
72 Framley Parsonage
“ You were in the wrong division of the county,” said the
gentleman called Frank.
“ Of course I was. When I really want to practise hunting
I’ll go to Greshamsbury ; not a doubt about that.”
“ Or to Boxall hill,” said the lady ; “ you’ll find quite as
much zeal there as at Greshamsbury.”
“And more discretion, you should add,” said the gentleman.
“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” laughed Miss Dunstable ; “ your dis-
cretion indeed ! But you have not told me a word about
Lady Arabella.”
“ My mother is quite well,” said the gentleman.
“ And the doctor ? By-the-by, my dear, I’ve had such
a letter from the doctor ; only two days ago. I’ll show it you
upstairs to-morrow. But mind, it must be a positive secret.
If he goes on in this way he’ll get himself into the Tower, or
Coventry, or a blue-book, or some dreadful place.”
“ Why ; what has he said ?”
“ Never you mind. Master Frank : I don’t mean to show
you the letter, you may be sure of that. But if your wife will
swear three times on a poker and tongs that she won’t
reveal, I’ll show it to her. And so you are quite settled at
Boxall hill, are you ? ”
“ Frank’s horses are settled ; and the dogs nearly so,” said
Frank’s wife ; “ but I can’t boast much of anything else yet.”
“ Well, -there’s a good time coming. I must go and change
my things now. But, Mary, mind you get near me this
evening ; I have such a deal to say to you.” And then Miss
Dunstable marched out of the room.
All this had been said in so loud a voice that it was, as a
matter of course, overheard by Mark Robarts — that part of
the conversation of course I mean which had come from Miss
Dunstable. And then Mark learned that this was young
Frank Gresham of Boxall hill, son of old Mr. Gresham of
Greshamsbury. Frank had lately married a great heiress ; a
greater heiress, men said, even than Miss Dunstable ; and as
the marriage was hardly as yet more than six months old the
Barsetshire world was still full of it
“ The two heiresses seem to be very loving, don’t they ? ”
said Mr. Supplehouse. “ Birds of a feather flock together,
you know. But they did say some little time ago that young
Gresham was to have married Miss Dunstable herself.”
“Miss Dunstable! why, she might almost be his mother,”
said Mark.
“That makes but little difference. He was obliged to
Gatherum Castle 73
marry money, and I believe there is no doubt that he did at
one time propose to Miss Dunstable.”
“ I have had a letter from Lufton,” Mr. Sowerby said to him
the next morning. “ He declares that the delay was all your
fault. You were to have told Lady Lufton before he did any-
thing, and he was waiting to write about it till he heard from
you. It seems that you never said a word to her ladyship on
the subject.”
“ I never did, certainly. My commission from Lufton was
to break the matter to her when I found her in a proper
humour for receiving it. If you knew Lady Lufton as well as
I do, you would know that it is not every day that she would
be in a humour for such tidings.”
“ And so I was to be kept waiting indefinitely because you
two between you weie afraid of an old woman I However, I
have not a word to say against her, and the matter is settled
now.”
“ Has the farm been sold ? ”
“ Not a bit of it. The dowager could not bring her mind
to suffer such profanation for the Lufton acres, and so she sold
five thousand pounds out of the funds and sent the money to
Lufton as a present ; — sent it to him without saying a word,
only hoping that it would suffice for his wants. I wish I had
a mother, I know,”
Mark found it impossible at the moment to make any
remark upon what had been told him, but he felt a sudden
qualm of conscience and a wish that he was at Framley
instead of at Gatherum Castle at the present moment. He
knew a good deal respecting Lady Lufton's income and the
manner in which it was spent. It was very handsome for a
single lady, but then she lived in a free and open-handed
style ; her charities were noble ; there was no reason why she
should save money, and her annual income was usually spent
within the year. Mark knew this, and he knew also that
nothing short of an impossibility to maintain them would
induce her to lessen her charities. She had now given away
a portion of her principal to save the property of her son — her
son, who was so much more opulent than herself, — upon
whose means, too, the world made fewer effectual claims.
And Mark knew, too, something of the purpose for which this
money had gone. There had been unsettled gambling claims
between Sowerby and Lord Lufton, originating in affairs of the
turf. It had now been going on for four years, almost from
the period when Lord Lufton had become of age. He had
74 Framley Parsonage
before now spoken to Robarts on the matter with much bitter
anger, alleging that Mr. Sowerby was treating him unfairly,
nay, dishonestly — that he was claiming money that was not
due to him ; and then he declared more than once that he
would bring the matter before the Jockey Club. But Mark,
knowing that Lord Lufton was not clear-sighted in these
matters, and believing it to be impossible that Mr. Sowerby
should actually endeavour to defraud his friend, had smoothed
down the young lord’s anger, and recommended him to get
the case referred to some private arbiter. All this had after-
wards been discussed between Robarts and Mr. Sowerby him-
self, and hence had originated their intimacy. The matter
was so referred, Mr. Sowerby naming the referee; and Lord
Lufton, when the matter was given against him, took it easily.
His anger was over by that time. “ IVe been clean done
among them,” he said to Mark, laughing; “but it does not
signify ; a man must pay for his experience. Of course,
Sowerby thinks it all right ; I am bound to suppose so.”
And then there had been some further delay as to the
amount, and part of the money had been paid to a third
person, and a bill had been given, and heaven and the Jews
only know how much money Lord Lufton had paid in all ;
and now it was ended by his handing over to some wretched
villain of a money-dealer, on behalf of Mr. Sowerby, the
enormous « sum of five thousand pounds, which had been
deducted from the means of his mother. Lady Lufton !
Mark, as he thought of all this, could not but feel a certain
animosity against Mr. Sowerby — could not but suspect that he
was a bad man. Nay, must he not have known that he was
very bad ? And yet he continued walking with him through
the duke’s grounds, still talking about Lord Lufton’s affairs,
and still listening with interest to what Sowerby told him of
his own. “No man was ever robbed as I have been,” said he.
“ But I shall win through yet, in spite of them all. But
those Jews, Mark ” — he had become very intimate with him
in these latter days — “ whatever you do, keep clear of them.
Why, I could paper a room with their signatures ; and yet I
never had a claim upon one of them, though they always have
claims on me ! ”
I have said above that this affair of Lord Lufton’s was ended ;
but it now appeared to Mark that it was not quite ended.
“ Tell Lufton, you know,” said Sowerby, “ that every bit of
paper with his name has been taken up, except what that rufhan
Toaer has. Tozer may have one bill, I believe, — something
Gatherum Castle 75
that was not given up when it was renewed. But Til make my
lawyer Gumption get that up. It may cost ten pounds
or twenty pounds, not more. You’ll remember that when you
see Lufton, will you ?”
** You’ll see Lufton, in all probability, Ijefore I shall.”
“ Oh, did I not tell you ? He's going to Framley Court at
once ; you’ll find him there when you return.”
“ Find liim at Framley ! ”
“Yesj this little cadeau from his mother has touched his
filial heart. He is rushing home to P'ramley to pay back the
dowager’s hard moidores in soft caresses. I wish I had a
mother ; I know that.” And Mark still felt that he feared Mr.
Sow’erby, but he could not make up his mind to break away
from him.
And there was much talk of politics just then at the castle.
Not that the duke joined in it with any enthusiasm. He was
a whig — a huge mountain of a colossal whig — all the world
knew that. No opponent would have dreamed of tampering
with his whiggery, nor would any brother whig have dreamed of
doubting it. But he was a whig who gave very little practical
support to any set of men, and very little practical opposition
to any other set. He was above troubling himself with such
sublunar matters. At election time he supported, and always
carried, whig candidates : and in return he had been appointed
lord lieutenant of the county by one whig minister, and had
received the Garter from another. But these things were
matters of course to a Duke of Omnium. He was born to be
a lord lieutenant and a knight of the Garter. But not the less
on account of his apathy, or rather quiescence, was it thought
that Gatherum Castle was a fitting place in which politicians
miglit express to each other their present hopes and future
aims, and concoct together little plots in a half-serious and
half-mocking way. Indeed it was hinted that Mr. Supple-
house and Harold Smith, with one or two others, were at
Gatherum for this express purpose. Mr. Fothergill, too,
was a noted politician, and was supposed to know the
duke’s mind well ; and Mr. Green Walker, the nephew of the
marchioness, was a young man whom the duke desired to
have brought forward. Mr. Sowerby also was the duke’s
own member, and so the occasion suited well for the inter-
change of a few ideas.
The then prime minister, angry as many men were with him,
had not been altogether unsuccessful. He had brought the
Russian war to a close, which, if not glorious, was at any rate
76 Framley Parsonage
much more so than Englishmen at one time had ventured to
hope. And he had had wonderful luck in that Indian mutiny.
It is true that many of those even who voted with him would
declare that this was in no way attributable to him. Great
men had risen in India and done all that. Even his minister
there, the governor whom he had sent out, was not allowed
in those days any credit for the success which was achieved
under his orders. There was great reason to doubt the
man at the helm. But nevertheless he had been lucky.
There is no merit in a public man like success ! But now,
when the evil days were well nigh over, came the question
whether he had not been top successful. When a man has
nailed fortune to his chariot-wheels he is apt to travel about
in rather a proud fashion. There are servants who think that
their masters cannot do without them; and the public also
may occasionally have some such servant. What if this too
successful minister were one of them ! And then a discreet,
commonplace, zealous member of the Lower House docs not
like to be jeered at, when he does his duty by his constituents
and asks a few questions. An all-successful minister who
cannot keep his triumph to himself, but must needs drive about
in a proud fashion, laughing at commonplace zealous members
— laughing even occasionally at members who are by no means
commonplace, which is outrageous ! — may it not be as well to
ostracize him for awhile ?
“ Had we not better throw in our shells against him ? ” says
Mr. Harold Smith.
“Let us throw in our shells, by all means,” says Mr.
Supplehouse, mindful as Juno of his despised charms. And
when Mr. Supplehouse declares himself an enemy, men know
how much it means. They know that that much-belaboured
head of affairs must succumb to the terrible blows which are
now in store for him. “ Yes, we will throw in our shells.”
And Mr. Supplehouse rises from his chair with gleaming eyes.
“ Has not Greece as noble sons as him ? ay, and much nobler,
traitor that he is. We must judge a man by his friends,” says
Mr. Supplehouse ; and he points away to the East, where our
dear allies the French are supposed to live, and where our head
of affairs is supposed to have too close an intimacy.
They all understand this, even Mr. Green Walker. “ I don’t
know that he is any good to any of us at all, now,” says the
talented member for the Crewe Junction. “ He’s a great deal
too uppish to suit my book ; and I know a great many people
that think so too. There’s my uncle ”
Gatherum Castle 77
“ He’s the best fellow in the world,” said Mr. Folhergill, who
felt, perhaps, that that coming revelation about Mr. Green
Walker’s uncle might not be of use to them ; “ but the fact is
one gets tired of the same man always. One does not like part-
ridge every day. As for me, I have nothing to do with it myself ;
but I would certainly like to change the dish.”
“ If we’re merely to do as we are bid, and have no voice of
our own, i don’t see what’s the good of going to the shop at
all,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“ Not the least use,” said Mr. Supplehouse. “ We are false
to our constituents in submitting to such a dominion.”
” Let’s have a change, then,” said Mr. Sowerby. ” The
matter’s pretty much in our own hands.”
“ Altogether,” said Mr. Green Walker. “ That’s what my
uncle always says.”
“ The Manchester men will only be too happy for the
chance,” said Harold Smith.
“ And as for the high and dry gentlemen,” said Mr. Sowerby,
“ it’s not very likely that they will object to pick up the fruit
when we shake the tree.”
“As to picking up the fruit, that’s as may be,” said Mr,
Supplehouse. Was he not the man to save the nation ; and if
so, why should he not pick up the fruit himself? Had not the
greatest power in the country pointed him out as such a
saviour? What though the country at the present moment
needed no more saving, might there not, nevertheless, be a
good time coining? Were there not rumours of other wars
still prevalent — if indeed the actual war then going on was
being brought to a close without his assistance by some other
species of salvation ? He thought of that country to which he
had pointed, and of that friend of his enemies, and remem-
bered that there might be still work for a mighty saviour. The
public mind was now awake, and understood what it was about.
When a man gets into his head an idea that the public voice
calls for him, it is astonishing how great becomes his trust in
the wisdom of the public. Vox populi vox Deu “ Has it not
been so always ? ” he says to himself, as he gets up and as he
goes to bed. And then Mr. Supplehouse felt that he was the
master mind there at Gatherum Castle, and that those there
were all puppets in his hand. It is such a pleasant thing to
feel that one’s friends are puppets, and that the strings are in
one’s own possession. But what if Mr. Supplehouse himself
were a puppet? Some months afterwards, when the much-
belaboured head of affairs was in very truth made to retire.
78 Framley Parsonage
when unkind shells were thrown in against him in great
numbers, when he exclaimed, Et tu^ Brute till the words
were stereotyped upon his lips, all men in all places talked
much about the great Gatherum Castle confederation. The
Duke of Omnium, the world said, had taken into his high
consideration the state of affairs, and seeing with his eagle’s
eye that the welfare of his countrymen at large required
that some great step should be initiated, he had at once
summoned to his mansion many members of the Lower
House, and some also of the House of Lords, — mention
was here especially made of the all-venerable and all-wise
Lord Boanerges ; and men went on to say that there, in deep
conclave, he had made known to them his views. It was
thus agreed that the head of affairs, whig as he was, must fall.
The country required it, and the duke did his duty. This
w^as the beginning, the world said, of that celebrated con-
federation, by which the ministry was overturned, and — as
the Goody Twoshoes added — the country saved. But the
Jupiter took all the credit to itself; and the Jupiter not
far wrong. All the credit was due to the Jupiter — in that, as
in everything else.
In the meantime the Duke of Omnium entertained his guests
in the quiet princely style, but did not condescend to have
much conversation on politics either with Mr. Supplehouse or
with Mr» Harold Srniili. And as for Lord Boanerges, he
spent the morning on which the above-described conversation
took place in teaching iMiss Dunstable to blow soap-bubbles on
scientific principles,
“ Dear, dear ! ” said Miss Dunstable, as s^iarks of knowledge
came flying in upon her mind. “ I always thought that a soap-
bubble was a soap-bubble, and I never asked tlie reason why.
One doesn’t, you know, my lord.”
“ Pardon me. Miss Dunstable,” said the old lord, “ one
does ; but nine hundred and ninety-nine do not.”
“ And the nine hundred and ninety-nine have the best of it,”
said Miss Dunstable. “ What pleasure can one have in a
ghost after one has seen the phosphorus rubbed on ? ”
“ Quite true, my dear lady. ‘ If ignorance be bliss, ’tis folly
to be wise.’ It all lies in the * if.’ ”
Then Miss Dunstable began to sing:—
‘ What iho' I trace each herb and flower
That sips the morning dew — ’
—you know the rest, my lord.” Lord Boanerges did know
Gatherum Castle 79
almost everything, but he did not know that ; and so Miss
Dunstable went on : —
‘ Did I not own Jchovali’s power
How vain were all 1 knew.* ”
“ Exactly, exactly, Miss Dunstable,” said his lordship ; “ but
why not ow i the power and trace the flower as well ? perhaps
one might help the other.” Upon the whole, I arn afraid that
Lord Boanerges got the best of it. But, then, that is his line.
He has been getting the best of it all his life.
It was observed by all that the duke was especially attentive
to young Mr. Frank Gresham, the gentleman on whom and
on whose wife Miss Dunstable had seized so vehemently. This
Mr. Gresham was the richest commoner in the county, and it
was rumoured that at the next election he would be one of the
members for the Kist Riding. Now the duke had little or
nothing to do with the East Riding, and it was well known
that young Gresham would be brought forward as a strong con-
servative. But, nevertheless, his acres were so extensive and
his money so plentiful that he was worth a duke’s notice. Mr.
Sowerby, also, was almost more than civil to him, as was
natural, seeing that this very young man by a mere scratch of
his pen could turn a scrap of paper into a bank-note of almost
fabulous value.
“ So you have the P2ast Barsetshire hounds at Boxall hill ;
have you not ? ” said the duke.
“ The hounds are there,” said Frank. “ But I am not the
master.”
“ Oh I I understood ”
“My father has them. But he finds Boxall hill more
centrical than Greshamsbury. The dogs and horses have to
go shorter distances.”
“ Boxall hill is very centrical,”
“ Oh, exactly ! ”
“ And your young gorse coverts are doing well ? ”
“ Pretty well — gorse won’t thrive everj’where, I find. I wish
it would.”
“That’s just what I say to Fothergill; and then where
theite’s much woodland you can't get the vermin to leave it.”
“ But we haven’t a tree at Boxall hill,” said Mrs. Gresham.
“ Ah, yes ; you’re new there, certainly ; you’ve enough of it
at Greshamsbury in all conscience. There’s a larger extent of
wood there than we have ; isn’t there, Fothergill ? ” Mr.
8o Framley Parsonage
Fothergill said that the Greshamsbury woods were very ex-
tensive, but that, perhaps, he thought —
“ Oh, ah ! I know/* said the duke. “ The Black Forest in
its old days was nothing to Gatherum woods, according to
Fothergill. And then, again, nothing in East Barsetsli ire could
be equal to anything in West Barsetshire. Isn’t that it ; eh,
Fothergill?” Mr. Fothergill professed that he had been
brought up in that faith and intended to die in it.
“Your exotics at Boxall hill are very fine, magnificent!”
said Mr. Sowerby.
“ rd sooner have one full-grown oak standing in its pride
alone,” said young Gresham, rather grandiloquently, “ than all
the exotics in the world.”
“ They’ll come in due time,” said the duke.
“ But the due time won’t be in my days. And so they’re
going to cut down Chaldicotes forest, are they, Mr. Sowerby ? ”
“ Well, I can’t tell you that. They are going to disforest it.
I have been ranger since I was twenty-two, and I don’t yet
know whether that means cutting down.”
“ Not only cutting down, but rooting up,” said Mr. Fothergill.
“ It’s a murderous shame,” said Frar^k Gresham ; “ and I
will say one thing, I don’t think any but a whig government
would do it.”
“ Ha, ha, ha I ’* laughed his grace. “ At any rate, I’m sure
of this,” he said, “ that if a conservative government did do so,
the whigs would be just as indignant as you are now.”
“ I’ll tell you what you ought to do, Mr. Gresham,” said
Sowerby : “ put in an offer for the whole of the West Bai setshire
crown property ; they will be very glad to sell it.”
“ And we should be delighted to welcome you on this side of
the border,” said the duke. Young Gresham did feel rather
flattered. There were not many men in the county to whom
such an offer could be made without an absurdity. It might
be doubted whether the duke himself could purchase the
Chase of Chaldicotes with ready money ; but that he, Gresham,
could do so — he and his wife between them — no man did
doubt. And then Mr. Gresham thought of a former day when
he had once been at Gatherum Castle. He had been poor
enough then, and the duke had not treated him in the most
courteous manner in the world. How hard it is for a rich man
not to lean upon his riches I harder, indeed, than for a camel
to go through the eye of a needle.
All Barsetshire knew — at any rate all West Barsetshire — that
Miss Dunstable had been brought down in those parts in order
Gatherum Castle 8i
that Mr. Sowerby might marry her. It was not surmised that
Miss Dunstable herself had had any previous notice of this
arrangement, but it was supposed that the thing would turn out
as a matter of course. Mr. Sowerby had no money, but then
he was witty, clever, good-looking, and a member of Parliament.
He lived before the world, represented an old family, and had
an old place. How could Miss Dunstable possibly do better?
She was not so young now, and it was time that she should
look about her. The suggestion, as regarded Mr. Sowerby,
was certainly true, and was not the less so as regarded some of
Mr. Sowerby*s friends. His sister, Mrs. Harold Smith, had
devoted herself to the work, and with this view had run up a
dear friendship with Miss Dunstable. The bishop had inti-
mated, nodding his head knowingly, that it would be a very
good thing. Mrs. Troudie had given in her adherence. Mr.
Supplehouse had been made to understand that it must be a
case of “ Paws off” with him, as long as he remained in that
part of the world ; and even the duke himself had desired
Fothergill to manage it.
“ He owes me an enormous sum of money,” said the duke,
who held all Mr. Sowerby’s title-deeds, “and I doubt whether
the security will be sufficient.”
“ Your grace will find the security quite sufficient,” said Mr.
Fothergill ; “ but nevertheless it would be a good match.”
“ Very good,” said the duke. And then it became Mr.
Fothergiirs duty to see that Mr. Sowerby and Miss Dunstable
became man and wife as speedily as possible. Some of the
party, who were more wide awake than others, declared that
he had made the offer ; others, that he was just going to do so ;
and one very knowing lady went so far at one time as to say
that he was making it at that moment. Bets also were laid as
to the lady’s answer, as to the terms of the settlement, and as
to the period of the marriage — of all which poor Miss Dun-
stable of course knew nothing. Mr. Sowerby, in spite of the
publicity of his proceedings, proceeded in the matter very
well. He said little about it to those who joked with him, but
carried on the fight with what best knowledge he had in such
matters. But so much it is given to us to declare with
cert^iinty, that he had not pro[)osed on the evening previous to
the morning fixed for the departure of Mark Robarts. During
the last two days Mr. Sowerby’s intimacy with Mark had
grown warmer and warmer. He had talked to the vicar
confidentially about the doings of these bigwigs now present
at the castle, as though there were no other guest there with
82 Framley Parsonage
whom he could speak in so free a manner. He confided, It
seemed, much more in Mark than in his brother-in-law, Harold
Smith, or in any of his brother members of Parliament, and
had altogether opened his heart to him in this affair of his
anticipated marriage. Now Mr. Sow^erby ivas a man of mark
in the world, and all this flattered our young clergyman not a
little. On that evening before Robarts went away Sowerby
asked him to come up into his bedroom when the whole
party was breaking up, and there got him into an easy chair,
while he, Sowerby, walked up and down the room.
“ You can hardly tell, my dear fellow,” said he, “ the state
of nervous anxiety in which this puts me.”
“ Why don*t you ask her and have done with it ? She seems
to me to be fond of your society.”
“ Ah, it is not that only ; there are wheels within wheels : ”
and then he walked once or twice up and down the room,
during which Mark thought that he might as well go to bed.
" Not that I mind telling you everything,” said Sowerby.
“ I am infernally hard up for a little ready money just at the
present moment. It may be, and indeed I think it will be,
the case that 1 shall be ruined in this matter for the want
of it.”
“ Could not Harold Smith give it you ? ”
Ha, ha, ha ! you don*t know Harold Smith. Did you ever .
hear of His lending a man a shilling in his life ? ”
“ Or Suppkhouse ? ”
“ Lord love you ! You see me and Supplehouse together
here, and he comes and stays at my house, and all that ; but
Supplehouse and 1 are no friends. Look you here, Mark — I
would do more for your little finger than for his whole hand,
including the pen which he holds in it. Fothergill indeed
might — but then I know Fothergill is pressed himself at the
present moment. It is deuced hard, isn’t it ? 1 must give up
the whole game if I can’t put my hand upon 400/. within the
next two days.”
“ Ask her for it, herself.”
“ What, the woman 1 wish to marry I No, Mark, I’m not
quite come to that. I would sooner lose her than that.” Mark
sat silent, gazing at the fire and wishing that he was in his own
bedroom. He had an idea that Mr. Sowerby wished him to
produce this 400/., and he knew also that he had not 400/. in
the world,* and that if he had he would be acting very foolishly
to give it to Mr. Sowerby. But nevertheless he felt half
fascinated by the man, and half afraid of him.
Gatherum Castle 83
•* Lufton owes it to me to do more than this,” continued Mr.
Sowerby, “ but then Lufton is not here.”
“ Why, he has just paid five thousand pounds for you.”
** Paid five thousand pounds for me I Indeed he has done
no such thing: not a sixpence of it came into my hands.
Believe me, Mark, you don’t know the whole of that yet. Not
that 1 mean to say a word against Lufton. He is the soul of
honour ; though so deucedly dilatory in money matters. He
thought he was right all through that affair, but no man was
ever so confoundedly wrong. Why, don’t you remember that
’^hat was the very view you took of it yourself?”
“ I remember saying that I thought he was mistaken.”
“ Of course he was mistaken. And dearly the mistake cost
pe ; I had to make good the money for two or three years.
And my property ic not like bis — I wish it were.”
“ Marry Miss Dunstable, and that will set it all right for
pou.”
“ Ah ! so I would if I had this money. At any rate I would
bring it to the point. Now, I tell you what, Mark, if you’ll
assist me at this strait I’ll never forget it. And the time will
come round when I may be able to do something for you.”
“ I have not got a hundred, no, not fifty pounds by me in
the world.”
“Of course you’ve not. Men don’t walk about the streets
with 400/. in their pockets. I don’t suppose there’s a single
man here in the house with such a sum at his bankers’, unless
it be the duke.”
“ What is it you want then ? ”
“ Why, your name, to be sure. Believe me, my dear fellow,
I would not ask you really to put your hand into your pocket
to such a tune as that. Allow me to draw on you for that
amount at three months. Long before that lime I shall be
flush enough.” And then, before Mark could an.swer, be had
a bill stamp and pen and ink out on the table before him, and
was filling in the bill as though his friend had already given
his consent.
“ Upon my word, Sowerby, I had rather not do that.”
“ Why ? what are you afraid of? ” — Mr. Sowerby asked this
very, sharply. “ Did you ever hear of my having neglected to
take up a bill when it fell due ? ” Robarts thought that he
had heard of such a thing ; but in his confusion he was not
exactly sure, and so he said nothing.
“ No, my boy ; I have not come to that. Look here : just
you write, 'Accepted, Mark Robarts,’ across that, and then
84 Framley Parsonage
you shall never hear of the transaction again ; — and you W
have obliged me for ever.”
“ As a clergyman it would be wrong of me,” said Robarts.
As a clergyman ! Come, Mark ! If you don't like to do
as much as that for a friend, say so ; but don’t let us have that
sort of humbug. If there be one class of men whose names
would ibe found more frequent on the backs of bills in th
provincial banks than another) clergymen are that clasi|
Come, old fellow, you won’t throw me over when i am s»l
hard pushed.” Mark Robarts took the pen and signed thM
bill. It was the first time in his life that he had ever donri
such an act. Sowerby then shook him cordially by the hand^
and he walked off to his own bedroom a wretched man.
CHAPTER IX
THE vicar’s return
The next morning Mr. Robarts took leave of all his granc
friends with a heavy heart. He had lain awake half the night
thinking of what he had done and trying to reconcile himself
to his position. He had not well left Mr. Sowerby’s roon^
before he felt certain that at the end of three months he would
again be troubled about that 400/. As he went along the
passage, all the man’s known antecedents crowded upon hiir
much quicker than he could remember them when seated ii:
that armchair with the bill stamp before him, and the pen anc
ink ready to his hand. He remembered what Lord Luftor
had told him — how he had complained of having been left ir
the lurch ; he thought of all the stories current through the
entire county as to the impossibility of getting money fron-
Chaldicotes ; he brought to mind the known character of thi
man, and then he knew that he must prepare himself to makb
good a portion at least of that heavy payment. Why had h/
come to this horrid place ? Had he not everything at hom|
at Framley which the heart of man could desire ? No ; thii
heart of man could desire deaneries — the heart, fhat is, of th<
man vicar; and the heart of the man dean can desin
bishoprics ; and before the eyes of the man bishop does therf
not loom the transcendental glory of I^mbeth ? He hac
owned ta himself that he was ambitious , but he had to owr
to himself now also that he had hitherto taken but a son
path towards the object of his ambition. On the neif
The Vicar’s Return 85
i i*ming at breakfast-time, before his horse and gig arrived for
lim, no one was so bright as his friend Sowerby. “ So you
ire off, are you ? ” said he.
“ Yes, I shall go this morning.”
“Say everything that’s kind from me to Lufton. I may
Dossibly see him out hunting ; otherwise we shan’t meet till
he spring. As to my going to Framley, that’s out of the
ucstion. iler ladyship would look for my tail, and swear
iiat she smelt brimstone. By-bye, old fellow ! ”
! The German student when he first made his bargain with
he devil felt an indescribable attraction to his new friend ;
nd such was the case now with Robarts. He shook
'owerby’s hand very warmly, said that he hoped he should
nect him soon somewhere, and professed himself specially
inxioiis to hear ho--: that affair with the lady came off. As he
lad made his bargain — as he had undertaken to pay nearly
lalf-a-y car’s income for his dear friend — ought he not to
p.iave as much value as possible for his money ? If the dear
friendship of this flash member of Parliament did not represent
f that value, what else did do so ? But then he felt, or fancied
that he felt, that Mr. Sowerby did not care for him so much
! this morning as he had done on the previous evening. “ By-
bye,” said Mr. Sowerby, but he spoke no word as to such
future meetings, nor did he even promise to write. Mr.
Sowerby probably had many things on his mind ; and it
^ might be that it behoved him, having finished one piece of
t business, immediately to look to another.
I The sum for which Robarts had made himself responsible —
I which he so much feared that he would be called upon to pay
L — ^vv’as very nearly half-a-year’s income ; and as yet he had not
put by one shilling since he had been married. When he
around himself settled in his parsonage, he found also that all
' £he world regarded him as a rich man. He had taken the
Wictum of all the world as true, and had set himself to work
£to live comfortably. He had no absolute need of a curate ;
/out he could afford the 70/. — as Lady Lufton had said rather
injudiciously; and by keeping Jones in the parish he would be
‘acting charitably to a brother clergyman, and would also place
.himself in a more independent position. Lady Lufton had
^wished to see her pet clergyman well-to-do and comfortable ;
, but now, as matters had turned out, she much regretted this
affair of the curate. Mr. Jones, she said to herself, more
. than once, must be made to depart from Framley. He had
given his ^ife a pony-carriage, and for himself he had a saddle-
86
Framley Parsonage
horse, and a second horse for his gig. A man in his positidl^
well-to-do as he was, required as much as that. He hm
a footman also, and a gardener, and a groom. The two latt^l
were absolutely necessary, but about the former there had'^
been a question. His wife had been decidedly hostile to
the footman; but in all such matters as that, to doubt is/j
to be lost. When the footman had been discussed for
week it became quite clear to the master that he also
a necessary.
As he drove home that morning he pronounced to himselj
the doom of that footman, and the doom also of that saddle
horse. They at any rate should go. And then he wouli
spend no more money in trips to Scotland ; and above all, ]
would keep out of the bedrooms of impoverished members (
Parliament at the witching hour of midnight. Such resolve!
did he make to himself as he drove home ; and bethoughf
himself wearily how that 400/. might be made to be fortlicoming.ff
As to any assistance in the matter from Sowerby, — of that h^
gave himself no promise. But he almost felt himself happy
again as his wife came out into the porch to meet him with »
silk shawl over her head, and pretending to shiver as she
watched him descending from his gig. “ My dear old man,”
she said, as she led him into the warm drawing-room with alt?
his wrappings still about him, “ you must be starved.” But Marl
during tl^ whole drive had been thinking too much of thal
transaction in Mr. Sowerby’s bedroom to remember that tin
air was cold. Now he had his arm round his own dear Fanny^
waist ; but w^as he to tell her of that tiansaction ? At any rati
he. would not do it now, while his two boys w^ere in his armS|
rubbing the moisture from his whiskers with their kisses. After
all, what is there equal to that coming home ?
“ And so Lufton is here. I say, Frank, gently, old boy,”— >-
Frank was his elder son — “5^ou'll have baby into the fender.” ^
“ Let me take baby ; it’s impossible to hold the two of then^ii
they are so strong,” said the proud mother. “ Oh, yes,
came home early yesterday.” i
“ Have you seen him ? ” i
“ He was here yesterday, with her ladyship ; and 1 lunched'
there to-day. The letter came, you know, in time to stop thciJ
Merediths. They don’t go till to-morrow, so you will meet-
them after all. Sir George is wild about it, but Lady Luftoi^
would have her way. You never saw her in such a state aa^
she is.”
“ Good spirits, eh ? ”
The Vicar’s Return 87
1 should think so. All Lord Lufton’s horses are coming,
IfW he’s to be here till March.”
r«Till March ! ”
I “ So her ladyship whispered to me. She could not conceal
hir triumph at his coming. He’s going to give up Leicester-
shire this year altogether. I wonder what has brought it all
about ? ” Mark knew very well what had brought it about ; he
|.had been made acquainted, as the reader has also, with the
'price at which Lady Lufton had purchased her son’s visit. But
no one had told Mrs. Robarts that the mother had made her
son a present of five thousand pounds.
“ She’s in a good humour about everything now,” continued
Fanny; “so you need say nothing at all about Gatherum
Castle.”
“But she was vciy amrrv when she first heard it; was she
not ? ”
“ Well, Mark, to tell the truth, she was ; and we had quite a
scene there up in her own room upstairs — Justinia and I. She
had heard something else that she did not like at the same
time ; and then — but you know her way. Slie blazed up quite
hot,”
“ And said all manner of horrid things abc^ut me.”
“ About the duke she did. You know she never did like the
duke ; and for the matter of that, neither do I. I tell you that
fairly, Master Mark ! ”
“The duke is not so bad as he’s painted.”
“Ah, that’s what you say about another great person.
However, he won’t come here to trouble us, I suppose. And
then I left her, not in the best temper in the world ; for I blazed
up too, you must know.”
“ I am sure you did,” said Mark, pressing his arm round her
waist.
“ And then we were going to have a dreadful war, I thought ;
and I came home and wrote such a doleful letter to you. But
what should happen when I had just closed it, but in came her
ladyship — all alone, and But I can’t tell you what she did
or said, only she behaved beautifully ; just like herself too ; so
full of love and truth and honesty. There’s nobody like her,
Mark ; and she’s better than all the dukes that ever wore —
whatever dukes do wear.”
“ Hatns and hoofs ; that’s their usual apparel, according to
you and Lady Lufton,” said he, remembering what Mr. Sowerby
had said of himself.
“ You may say what you like about !ne, Mark, but you shan’t
D
88 Framley Parsonage
abuse I^ady Lufton. And if horns and hoofs mean wicki
ness and dissipation, I believe it*s not far wrong. But get
your big coat and make yourself comfortable.” And that v
all the scolding that Mark Robarts got from his wife on t
occasion of his great iniquity.
“ I will certainly tell her about this bill transaction,” hesa'^E
to himself; “but not to-day; not till after I have se« .
Lufton.” That evening they dined at Framley Court, and the •.
they met the young lord ; they found also Lady Lufton still
high good-humour. Lord Lufton himself was a fine, bright
looking young man; not so tall as Mark Robarts, and with
perhaps less intelligence marked on his face; but his features
were finer, and there was in his countenance a thorough
appearance of good humour and sweet temper. It was, indeed,
a pleasant face to look upon, and dearly I^dy Lufton loved to
gaze at it.
“ Well, Mark, so you have been among the Philistines ? ”
that was his lordship*s first remark. Robarts laughed as he
took his friend’s hands, and bethought himself how truly that
was the case ; that he was, in very truth, already “ himself in
bonds under Philistian yoke.” Alas, alas, it is very hard to
break asunder the bonds of the latter-day Philistines. When a
Samson does now and then pull a temple down about their
ears, is he not sure to be engulfed in the ruin with them ?
There iff no horse-leech that sticks so fast as your latter-day
Philistine.
“ So you have caught Sir George, after all,” said Lady Lufton ;
and that was nearly all she did say in allusion to his absence.
There was afterwards some conversation about the lecture, and
from her ladyship’s remarks it certainly was apparent that she
did not like the people among whom the vicar had been lately
staying ; but she said no word that was personal to him him-
self, or that could be taken as a reproach. The little episode of
Mrs. Proudie’s address in the lecture-room had already reached
Framley, and it was only to be expected that Lady Lufton
should enjoy the joke. She would affect to believe that the
body of the lecture had been given by the bishop’s wife ; and
afterwards, when Mark described her costume at that Sunday
morning breakfast table. Lady Lufton would assume that such
had been the dress in which she had exercised her faculties in
public.
“I would have given a five-pound note to have heard it,”
said Sir George.
“So would not I,” said Lady Lufton. “When one hears of
The Vicar’s Return 89
things described so graphically as Mr. Robarts now tells it,
e can hardly help laughing. But it would give me great pain
see the wife of one of our bishops place herself in such a
uation. For he is a bishop after all.”
“ Well, upon my word, my lady, I agree with Meredith,” said
5 Drd Lufton. “ It must have been good fun. As it did
ippen, you know, — as the Church was doomed to the disgrace,
-I should like to have heard it.”
“ I know you would have been shocked, Ludovic.”
“ I should have got over that in time, mother. It would
have been like a bull-fight, I suppose — horrible to see, no doubt,
but extremely interesting. And Harold Smith, Mark ; what
did he do all the while ? ”
“ It didnk take so very long, you know,” said Robarts.
“ And the poor bishop,” said Lady Meredith ; “ how did he
look ? I really do pity him.”
“ Well, he was asleep, I think.”
“ What, slept through it all ? ” said Sir George.
** It awakened him ; and then he jumped up and said
something.”
“ What, out loud, too ? ”
“ Only one word, or so.”
“ What a disgraceful scene ! ” said Lady Lufton. To those
who remember the good old man who was in the diocese before
him it is perfectly shocking. He confirmed you, Ludovic, and
you ought to remember him. It was over at Barchester, and
you went and lunched with him afterwards.”
** I do remember ; and especially this, that 1 never ate such
tarts in my life, before or since. The old man particularly
called my attention to them, and seemed remarkably pleased
that 1 concurred in his sentiments. There are no such tarts as
those going in the palace, now. I’ll be bound.”
" Mrs. Proudie will be very happy to do her best for you if
you will go and try,” said Sir George.
I beg that he will do no such thing,” said Lady Lufton ;
and that was the only severe word she said about any of Mark’s
visitings. As Sir George Meredith was there, Robarts could
say nothing then to Lord Lufton about Mr. Sowerby and Mr.
Sowerby’s money affairs ; but he did make an appointment for
a on the next morning.
“ You must come down and see my nags, Mark ; they came
to-day. The Merediths will be off at twelve, and then we can
have an hour together.” Mark said he would, and then went
home with his wife under his arm.
90 Framley Parsonage
“ Well, now, is not she kind ? ” said Fanny, as soon as
were out on the gravel together.
“ She is kind ; kinder than I can tell you just at present.
But did you ever know anything so bitter as she is to the poor
bishop ? And really the bishop is not so bad.” ^
“ Yes ; I know something much more bitter : and that is
what she thinks of the bishop’s wife. And you know, Mark, it
was so unladylike, her getting up in that way. What must the
people of Barchester think of her ? ”
“ As far as I could see, the people of Barchester liked it.”
“ Nonsense, Mark ; they could not. But never mind that
now. 1 want you to own that she is good.” And then Mrs.
Robarts went on with another long eulogy on the dowager.
Since that affair of the pardon-begging at the parsonage, Mrs.
Robarts hardly knew how to think well enough of her friend.
And the evening had been so pleasant after the dreadful storm
and threatenings of hurricanes ; her husband had been so well
received after his lapse of judgment; the wounds that had
looked so sore had been so thoroughly healed, and everything
was so pleasant. How all of this would have been changed
had she known of that little bill ! At twelve the next morning
the lord and the vicar were walking through the Framley
stables together. Quite a commotion had been made there,
for the larger portion of these buildings had of late years seldom
been used. But now all was crowding and activity. Seven or
eight very precious animals had followed Lord Lufton from
Leicestershire, and all of them required dimensions that were
thought to be rather excessive by the Framley old-fashioned
groom. My lord, however, had a head man of his own who
took the matter quite into his own hands. Mark, priest as he
was, was quite worldly enough to be fond of a good horse ; and
for some little time allowed Lord Lufton to descant on the
merit of this four-year-old filly, and that magnificent Rattle-
bones colt, out of a Mousetrap mare ; but he had other things
that lay heavy on his mind, and after bestowing half an hour
on the stud, he contrived to get his friend away to the
shrubbery walks.
“ So you have settled with Sowerby,” Robarts began by
saying.
“ Settled with him ; yes, but do you know the price ? ”
“ I believe that you have paid him five thousand pounds.”
“Yes, and about three before; and that in a matter in
which I did not really owe one shilling. Whatever 1 do in
future, I’ll keep out of Sowerby’s grip.”
91
The Vicar’s Return
“ But you don’t think he has been unfair to you.**
“ Marie, to tell you the truth I have banished the affair from
my mind, and don’t wish to take it up again. My mother has
paid the money to save the property, and of course I must
pay her back. But I think I may promise that I M'ill not have
any more money dealings with Sowerby. I will not say that
he is dishonest, but at any rate he is sharp.”
“Well, Lufton; what will you say when I tell you that 1
have put my name to a bill for him, for four hundred
pounds ? ”
“ Say ; why I should say ; but you’re joking ; a man in
your position would never do such a thing.”
“But I have done it.” Lord Lufton gave a long low
whistle.
“ He asked me the larJ night that I was there, making a
great favour of it, and declaring that no bill of his had ever yet
been dishonoured.”
Lord I.ufton whistled again. “ No bill of his dishonoured !
Why, the pocket-books of the Jews are stuffed full of his
dishonoured papers ! And you have really given him your
name for four hundred pounds?”
“ I have certainly.”
“At what date?”
“Three months.”
“ And have you thought where you are to get the money ? ”
“ I know very w'ell that I can’t get it, not at least by that
time. The bankers must renew it for me, and I must pay it
by degrees. That is, if Sowerby really does not take it up.”
“ It is just as likely that he will take up the national debt.*'
Robarts then told him about the projected marriage with Miss
Dunstable, giving it as his opinion that the lady would probably
accept the gentleman.
“ Not at all improbable,” said his lordship, “ for Sowerby is
an agreeable fellow ; and if it be so, he wull have all that he
wants for life. But his creditors will gain nothing. The duke,
who has his title-deeds, will doubtless get his money, and
the estate will in fact belong to the wife. But the small fry,
such as you, will not get a shilling.” Poor Mark ! He had had
an inkling of this before ; but it had hardly presented itself to
him in such certain terms. It was, then, a positive fact, that
in punishment for his weakness in having signed that bill he
would have to pay, not only four hundred pounds, but four
hundred pounds with interest, and expenses of renewal, and
commission, and bill stamps. Yes; he had certainly got
92 Framley Parsonage
among the Philistines during that visit of his to the duke. It
began to appear to him pretty clearly that it would have been
better for him to have relinquished altogether the glories of
Chaldicotes and Gatherum Castle.
And now, how was he to tell his wife ?
CHAPTER X
LUC V ROBARTS
And now, how was he to tell his wife ? That was the con-
sideration heavy on Mark Robarts* mind when last we left
him ; and he turned the matter often in his thoughts before he
could bring himself to a resolution. At last he did do so, and
one may say that it was not altogether a bad one, if only he
could carry it out. He would ascertain in what bank that
bill of his had been discounted. He would ask Sowerby, and
if he could not learn from him, he would go to the three
banks in Barchester. That it had been taken to one of them
he felt tolerably certain. He would explain to the manager
his conviction that he would have to make good the amount,
his inability to do so at the end of the three months, and the
whole state of his income ; and then the banker would explain
to him how the matter might be arranged. He thought that
he could pay 50/. every three months with interest. As soon
as this should have been concerted with the banker, he would
let his wife know all about it. Were he to tell her at the
present moment, while the matter was all unsettled, the in-
telligence would frighten her into illness. But on the next
morning there came to him tidings by the hands of Robin
postman, which for a long while upset all his plans. The
letter was from Exeter, His father had been taken ill, and
had very quickly been pronounced to be in danger. That even-
ing — the evening on which his sister wrote — the old man was
much worse, and it was desirable that Mark should go off to
Exeter as quickly as possible. Of course he went to Exeter —
again leaving the Framley souls at the mercy of the Welsh Low
Churchman. Framley is only four miles from Silverbridge,
and at Silverbridge he was on the direct road to the west.
He was, therefore, at Exeter before nightfall on that day. But,
nevertheless, he arrived there too late to see his father again
alive. The old man’s illness had been sudden and rapid, and
he expired without again seeing his eldest son. Mark arrived
Lucy Robarts 93
at the house of mourning just as they were learning to realize
the full change in their position.
The doctor's career had been on the whole successful, but
nevertheless he did not leave behind him as much money as
the world had given him credit for possessing. Who ever
does ? Dr. Robarts had educated a large family, had always
lived with every comfort, and had never posses:>ed a shilling
but what he had earned himself. A physician’s fees come in,
no doubt, with comfortable rapidity as soon as rich old gentle-
men and middle-aged ladies begin to put their faith in him ;
but fees run out almost with equal rapidity when a wife and
seven children are treated to everything that the world con-
siders most desirable. Mark, we have seen, had been edu-
cated at Harrow and Oxford, and it may be said, therefore,
that he had received his patrimony early in life. For Gerald
Robarts, the second brother, a commission had been bought
in a crack regiment. He also had been lucky, having lived
and become a captain in the Crimea ; and the purchase-money
was lodged for his majority. And John Robarts, the youngest,
was a clerk in the Petty Bag Office, and was already assistant
private secretary to the Lord Petty Bag himself — a place of
considerable trust, if not hitherto of large emolument ; and on
his education money had been spent freely, for in these days a
young man cannot get into the Petty Bag Office without
knowing at least three modern languages; and he must be
well up in trigonometry too, in bible theology, or in one dead
language — at his option. And the doctor had four daughters.
The two elder were married, including that Blanche with
whom Lord Lufton was to have fallen in love at the vicar’s
wedding. A Devonshire squire had done this in the lord’s
place ; but on marrying her it was necessary that he should
have a few thousand pounds, two or three perhaps, and the
old doctor had managed that they should be forthcoming.
The elder also had not been sent away from the paternal
mansion quite empty-handed. There were, therefore, at the
time of the doctor’s death two children left at home, of whom
one only, Lucy, the younger, will come much across us in the
course of our story.
Mark stayed for ten days at Exeter, he and the Devonshire
squire having been named as executors in the will. In this
document it was explained that the doctor trusted that pro
vision had been made for most of his children. As for his
dear son Mark, he said, he was aware that he need be under
DO uneasiness. On hearing this re^d Mark smiled sweetly,
94 Framley Parsonage
and looked very gracious ; but, nevertheless, his heart did
sink somewhat within him, for there had been a hope that a
small windfall, coming now so opportunely, might enable him
to rid himself at once of that dreadful Sowerby incubus. And
then the will went on to declare that Mary, and Gerald, and
Blanche, had also, by God’s providence, been placed beyond
want. And here, looking into the squire's face, one might
have thought that his heart fell a little also ; for he had not so
full a command of his feelings as his brother-in-law, w^o had
been so much more before the world. To John, the assistant
private secretary, was left a legacy of a thousand pounds ; and
to Jane and Lucy certain sums in certain four per cents.,
which were quite sufficient to add an efficient value to the
hands of those young ladies in the eyes of most prudent young
would-be Benedicts. Over and beyond this there was nothing
but the furniture, which he desired might be sold, and the
proceeds divided among them all. It might come to sixty or
seventy pounds a piece, and pay the expenses incidental on
his death. And then all men and women there and there-
abouts said that old Dr. Robarts had done well. His life had
been good and prosperous, and his will was just. And Mark,
among others, so declared — and was so convinced in spite of
his own little disappointment. And on the third morning
after the reading of the will Squire Crowdy, of Creamclotted
Hall, altogether got over his grief, and said that it was all
right. And then it was decided that Jane should go home
with him — for there was a brother squire who, it was thought,
might have an eye to Jane; — and Lucy, the younger, should
be taken to Framley parsonage. In a fortnight from the
receipt of that letter Mark arrived at his own house with his
sister Lucy under his wing.
All this interfered greatly with Mark’s wise resolution as to
the Sowerby-bill incubus. In the first place, he could not get
to Barchester as soon as he had intended, and then an idea
came across him that possibly it might be well that he should
borrow the money of his brother John, explaining the circum-
stances, of course, and paying him due interest. But he
had not liked to broach the subject when they were there in
Exeter, standing, as it were, over their father’s grave, and so
the matter was postponed. There was still ample time for
arrangement before the bill would come due, and he would
not tel] Fanny till he had made up his mind what that
arrangement would be. It would kill her, he said to himself
over and over again, were he to tell her of it without being
Lucy Robarts 95
able to tell her also that the means of liquidating the debt
were to be forthcoming.
And now I must say a word about Lucy Robarts. If one
might only go on without those descriptions how pleasant it
would all be ! But Lucy Robarts has to play a forward part in
this little drama, and those who care for such matters must be
made to understand something of her form and likeness.
When last we mentioned her as appearing, though not in any
prominent position, at her brother’s wedding, she was only
sixteen ; but now, at the time of her father’s death, somewhat
over two years having since elapsed, she was nearly nineteen.
Laying aside for the sake of clearness that indefinite term of
girl — for girls are girls from the age of three up to forty-three,
if not previously married — dropping that generic word, we may
say that then, at that v,odcling of her brother, she was a child ;
and now, at the death of her father, she was a woman.
Nothing, perhaps, adds so much to womanhood, turns the
child so quickly into a woman, as such death-bed scenes as
these. Hitherto but little had fallen to Lucy to do in the way
of woman’s duties. Of money transactions she had known
nothing, beyond a jocose attempt to make her annual allowance
of twenty-five pounds cover all her personal wants — an attempt
which was made jocose by the loving bounty of her father.
Her sister, who was three years her elder — for John came in
between them — had managed the house ; that is, she had made
the tea and talked to the housekeeper about the dinners. But
Lucy had sat at her father’s elbow, had read to him of evenings
when he went to sleep, had brought him his slippers and
looked after the comforts of his easy-chair. All this she
had done as a child ; but when she stood at the coffin head,
and knelt at the coffin side, then she was a woman.
She was smaller in stature than either of her three sisters, to
all of whom had been acceded the praise of being fine women
— a eulogy which the people of Exeter, looking back at the
elder sisters, and the general remembrance of them which
pervaded the city, were not willing to extend to Lucy. “ Dear
— dear ! ” had been said of her ; “ poor Lucy is not like a
Robarts at all ; is she, now, Mrs. I’ole ? ” — for as the daughters
had become fine women, so had the sons grown into stalwart
men. And then Mrs. Pole had answered ; “ Not a bit ; is she,
now ? Only think what Blanche was at her age. But she has
fine eyes, for all that ; and they do say she is the cleverest of
them all.” And that, too, is so true a description of her that 1
do not know that 1 can add much to it. She was not like
♦n *8i
96 Framley Parsonage
Blanche; for Blanche had a bright complexion, and a fine
neck, and a noble bust, et vera incessu patuit Dea — a true
goddess, that is, as far as the eye went. She had a grand idea,
moreover, of an apple-pie, and had not reigned eighteen
months at Creamclotted Hall before she knew all the mysteries
of pigs and milk, and most of those appertaining to cider and
green geese.
Lucy had no neck at all worth speaking of, — no neck, I
mean, that ever produced eloquence ; she was brown, too, and
had addicted herself in nowise, as she undoubtedly should
have done, to larder utility. In regard to the neck and colour,
poor girl, she could not help herself ; but in that other respect
she must be held as having wasted her opportunities. But
then what eyes she had ! Mrs. Pole was right there. They
flashed upon you, not always softly ; indeed not often softly if
you were a stranger to her ; but whether softly or savagely,
with a brilliancy that dazzled you as you looked at them. And
who shall say of what colour they were ? Green, probably, for
most eyes are green — green or grey, if green be thought un-
comely for an eyecolour. But it was not their colour, but
their fire, which struck one with such surprise.
Lucy Robarts was thoroughly a brunette. Sometimes the
dark tint of her cheek was exquisitely rich and lovely, and the
fringes of her eyes were long and soft, and her small teeth,
which one so seldom saw, were white as pearls, and her hair,
though short, was beautifully soft — by no means black, but yet
of so dark a shade of brown. Blanche, too, was noted for
fine teeth. They were white and regular and lofty as a new
row of houses in a French city. But then when she laughed
she was all teeth ; as she was all neck when she sat at the
piano. But Lucy’s teeth ! — it was only now and again, when
in some sudden burst of wonder she would sit for a moment
with her lips apart, that the fine finished lines and dainty pearl-
white colour of that perfect set of ivory could be seen. Mrs.
Pole would have said a word of her teeth also, but that to her
they had never been made visible. But they do say that she is
the cleverest of them all,” Mrs. Pole had added, very properly.
The people of Exeter had expressed such an opinion, and had
been quite just in doing so. I do not know how it happens,
but it always does happen, that everybody in every small town
knows which is the brightest-witted in every family. In this
respect l^rs. Pole had only expressed public opinion, and
public opinion was right. Lucy Robarts was blessed with an
intelligence keener than that of her brothers or sisters.
Lucy Robarts 97
” To tell the truth, Mark, I admire Lucy more than 1 do,
Blanche.” This had been said by Mrs. Robarts within a few
hours of her having assumed that name. ** She’s not a beauty
I know, but yet I do."
" My dearest Fanny ! ” Mark had answered in a tone of
surprise.
” I do then ; of course people don’t think so ; but I never
seem to care about regular beauties. Perhaps I envy them too
much.” What Mark said next need not be repeated, but
everybody may be sure that it contained some gross flattery
for his young bride. He remembered this, however, and had
always called Lucy his wife’s pet. Neither of the sisters had
since that been at Framley ; and though Fanny had spent a
week at Exeter on the occasion of Blanche’s marriage, it
could hardly be bJid that she was very intimate with them.
Nevertheless, when it became expedient that one of them
should go to Framley, the remembrance of what his wife
had said immediately induced Mark to make the offer to
Lucy ; and Jane, who was of a kindred soul with Blanche,
was delighted to go to Creamclotted Hall. The acres of
Heavybed House, down in that fat Totnes country, adjoined
those of Creamclotted Hall, and Heavybed House still
wanted a mistress.
Fanny was delighted when the news reached her. It would
of course be proper that one of his sisters should live with
Mark under their present circumstances, and she was happy to
think that that quiet little bright-eyed creature was to come
and nestle with her under the same roof. The children should
so love her — only not quite so much as they loved mamma ;
and the snug little room that looks out over the porch, in which
the chimney never smokes, should be made ready for her;
and she should be allowed her share of driving the pony —
which was a great sacrifice of self on the part of Mrs. Robarts
— and Lady Lufton’s best goodwill should be bespoken. In
fact, Lucy was not unfortunate in the destination that was laid
out for her. Lady Lufton had of course heard of the doctor’s
death, and had sent all manner of kind messages to Mark,
advising him not to hurry home by any means until everything
was settled at Exeter. And then she was told of the new-comer
that was expected in the parish. When she heard that it was
Lucy, the younger, she also was satisfied ; for Blanche’s charms,
though indisputable, had not been altogether to her taste. If
a second Blanche were to arrive there what danger might
there not be for young Lord Lufton ! " Quite right,” said her
98 Framley Parsonage
ladyship, “ just what he ought to do. I think I remember the
young lady ; rather small, is she not, and very retiring ? ”
“ Rather small and very retiring. What a description ! **
said Lord Lufton.
“ Never mind, Ludovic ; some young ladies must be small,
and some at least ought to be retiring. We shall be delighted to
make her acquaintance.”
“ I remember your other sister-in-law very well,” said Lord
Lufton. “ She was a beautiful woman.”
“ I don't think you will consider Lucy a beauty,” said Mrs.
Robarts.
“ Small, retiring, and — ” so far Lord Lufton had gone, when
Mrs. Robarts finished by the word, “ plain.” She had liked
Lucy’s face, but she had thought that others probably did not
do so.
“ Upon my word,” said Lady Lufton, “ you don’t deserve to
have a sister-in-law. I remember her very well, and can say
that she is not plain. I was very much taken with her manner
at your wedding, my dear, and thought more of her than I did
of the beauty, 1 can tell you.”
“ I must confess I do not remember her at all,” said his
lordship. And so the conversation ended. And then at the
end of the fortnight Mark arrived with his sister. They did
not reach Framley till long after dark — somewhere between six
and severu— and by this time it was December. There w'as
snow on the ground, and frost in the air, and no moon, and
cautious men when they went on the roads had their horses’
shoes cocked. Such being the state of the weather Mark’s gig
had been nearly filled with cloaks and shawls when it was sent
over to Silverbridge. And a cart was sent for Lucy’s luggage,
and all manner of preparations had been made. Three times
had Fanny gone herself to see that the fire burned brightly in
the little room over the porch, and at the moment that the
sound of the wheels was heard she was engaged in opening her
son’s mind as to the nature of an aunt. Hitherto papa and
mamma and Lady Lufton were all that he had known, excepting,
of course, the satellites of the nursery. And then in three
minutes Lucy was standing by the fire. Those three minutes
had been taken up in embraces between the husband and the
wife. Let who would be brought as a visitor to the house, after
a fortnight’s absence, she would kiss him before she welcomed
any one else. But then she turned to Lucy, and began to assist
her with her cloaks.
“ Oh, thank you,” said Lucy; ” I'm not cold, — not very at
Lucy Robarts 99
least. Don’t trouble yourself : I can do it.” But here she had
made a false boast, for her fingers had been so numbed that she
could do nor undo anything. They were all in black, of
course ; but the sombreness of Lucy’s clothes struck Fanny
much more than her own. They seemed to have swallowed
her up in their blackness, and to have made her almost an
emblem of death. She did not look up, but kept her face
turned to wards the fire, and seemed almost afraid of her
position.
“ She may say what she likes, Fanny,” said Mark, “ but she
is very cold. And so am I, — cold enough. You had better go
up with her to her room. We won’t do much in the dressing
way to-night; eh, Lucy?” In the bedroom Lucy thawed a
little, and Fanny, as she kissed her, said to herself that she had
been wrong as to that word “ plain.” Lucy, at any rate, was
not plain.
“ You will be used to us soon,” said Fanny, “ and then I
hope we shall make you comfortable.” And she took her
sister-in-law’s hand and pressed it. Lucy looked up at her, and
her eyes then were tender enough. “ I am sure I shall be
happy here,” she said, “ with you. But — but — dear papa ! ”
And then they got into each other’s arms, and had a great bout
of kissing and crying. “ Plain,” said Fanny to herself, as at
last she got her guest’s hair smoothed and the tears washed from
her eyes — ** plain ! She has the loveliest countenance that I
ever looked at in my life ! ”
“ Your sister is quite beautiful,” she said to Mark, as they
talked her over alone before they went to sleep that night.
“ No, she’s not beautiful ; but she’s a very good girl, and
clever enough too, in her sort of way.”
“ I think her perfectly lovely. I never saw such eyes in my
life before.”
“i’ll leave her in your hands, then; you shall get her a
husband.”
“ That mayn’t be so easy. I don’t think she’d marry any-
body. ”
“ Well, I hope not. But she seems to me to be exactly cut
out for an old maid ; — to be aunt Lucy for ever and ever to
your bairns.”
And so she shall, with all my heart. But I don’t think she
will, very long. 1 have no doubt she will be hard to please ;
but if 1 were a man 1 should fall in love with her at once.
Did you ever observe her teeth, Mark ? ”
“ I don’t think I ever did.”
lOO Framley Parsonage
You wouldn’t know whether any one had a tooth in their
head, I believe.”
“No one except you, my dear; and I know all yours by
heart.”
“ You are a goose.”
“And a very sleepy one ; so, if you please, I’ll go to roost.”
And thus there was nothing more said about Lucy’s beauty on
that occasion.
For the first two days Mrs. Robarts did not make much of
her sister-in-law. Lucy, indeed, was not demonstrative : and
she was, moreover, one of those few persons — for they are very
few — who are contented to go on with their existence without mak-
ing themselves the centre of any special outward circle. To the
ordinary run of minds it is impossible not to do this. A man’s
own dinner is to himself so important that he cannot bring
himself to believe that it is a matter utterly indifferent to every
one else. A lady’s collection of baby-clothes, in early years,
and of house linen and curtain-fringes in later life, is so very
interesting to her own eyes, that she cannot believe but what
other people will rejoice to behold it. I would not, however,
be held as regarding this tendency as evil. It leads to conver-
sation of some sort among people, and perhaps to a kind of
sympathy. Mrs. Jones will look at Mrs. White’s linen chest,
hoping that Mrs. White may be induced to look at hers. One
can only pour out of a jug that which is in it. For the most of
us, if we do not talk of ourselves, or at any rate of the individual
circles of which we are the centres, we can talk of nothing. 1
cannot hold with those who wish to put down the insignificant
chatter of the world. As for myself, I am always happy to look
at Mrs. Jones’s linen, and never omit an opportunity of giving
her the details of my own dinners. But Lucy Robarts had not
this gift. She had come there as a stranger into her sister-in-law’s
house, and at first seemed as though she would be contented in
simply having her corner in the drawing-room and her place at
the parlour-table. She did not seem to need the comforts of
condolence and open-hearted talking. 1 do not mean to say
that she was moody, that she did not answer when she was
spoken to, or that she took no notice of the children ; but she
did not at once throw herself and all her hopes and sorrows into
Fanny’s heart, as Fanny would have had her do.
Mrs. Robarts herself was what we call demonstrative. When
she was angiy with Lady Lufton she showed it. And as since
that time her love and admiration for Lady Lufton had
increased, she showed that also. When she was in any way
lOI
Lucy Robarts
displeased with her husband, she could not hide it, even
though she tried to do so, and fancied herself successful ; — no
more than she could hide her warm, constant, overflowing
woman’s love. She could not walk through a room hanging
on her husband’s arm without seeming to proclaim to every
one there that she thought him the best man in it. She was
demonstrative, and therefore she was the more disappointed
in that Lucy did not rush at once with all her cares into her
open heart. “ She is so quiet,” Fanny said to her husband.
“That’s her nature,” said Mark. “She always was quiet
as a child. While we were smashing everything, she would
never crack a teacup.”
“ I wish she would break something now,” said Fanny, “ and
then perhaps we should get to talk about it.” But she did not on
this account give ovei loving her sister-in-law. She probably
valued her the more, unconsciously, for not having those aptitudes
with which she herself was endowed. And then after two days
Lady Lufton called : of course it may be supposed that Fanny
had said a good deal to her new inmate about Lady Lufton.
A neighbour of that kind in the country exercises so large an
influence upon the whole tenor of one’s life, that to abstain
from such talk is out of the question. Mrs. Robarts had been
brought up almost under the dowager’s wing, and of course
she regarded her as being worthy of much talking. Do not
let persons on this account suppose that Mrs. Robarts was a
tuft-hunter, or a toad-eater. If they do not see the difference
they have yet got to study the earliest principles of human
nature.
Lady I^ufton called, and Lucy was struck dumb. Fanny
was particularly anxious that her ladyship’s first impression
should be favourable, and to effect this, she especially
endeavoured to throw the two together during that visit. But
in this she was unwise. Lady Lufton, however, had woman-
craft enough not to be led into any egregious error by Lucy’s
silence. “And what day will you come and dine with us?”
said Lady Lufton, turning expressly to her old friend Fanny.
“ Oh, do you name the day. We never have many engage-
ments, you know."
“ Will Thursday do, Miss Robarts ? You will meet nobody
you know, only my son ; so you need not regard it as going
out. Fanny here will tell you that stepping over to Framley
Court is no more going out, than when you go from one room
to another in the parsonage. Is it, Fanny ? ” Fanny laughed,
and said that that stepping over to Framley Court certainly
102 Framley Parsonage
was done so often that perhaps they did not think so much
about it as they ought to do.
“ We consider ourselves a sort of happy family here, Miss
Robarts, and are delighted to have the opportunity of including
you in the menage.’* Lucy gave her ladyship one of her
sweetest smiles, but what she said at that moment was
inaudible. It was plain, however, that she could not bring
herself even to go as far as Framley Court for her dinner just
at present. “ It was very kind of Lady Lufton,” she said to
Fanny ; “ but it was so very soon, and — and — and if they
would only go without her, she would be so happy.” But as
the object was to go with her — expressly to take her there —
the dinner was adjourned for a short time — sine die.
CHAPTER XI
GRISELDA GRANTLY
It was nearly a month after this that Lucy was first intro-
duced to Lord Lufton, and then it was brought about only by
accident. During that time I^dy Lufton had been often at
the parsonage, and had in a certain degree learned to know
Lucy ; but the stranger in the parish had never yet plucked up
courage to accept one of the numerous invitations that had
reached her. Mr. Robarts and his wife had frequently been at
Framley Court, but the dreaded day of Lucy’s initiation had
not yet arrived. She had seen Lord Lufton in church, but
hardly so as to know him, and beyond that she had not seen
him at all. One day, however — or rather, one evening, for it
was already dusk — he overtook her and Mrs. Robarts on the
road walking towards the vicarage. He had his gun on his
shoulder, three pointers were at his heels, and a gamekeepei
followed a little in the rear.
“How are you, Mrs. Robarts?” he said, almost before he
had overtaken them. “ I have been chasing you along the
road for the last half-mile. I never knew ladies walk so fast.”
“ We should be frozen if we were to dawdle about as you
gentlemen do,” and then she stopped and shook hands with
him. She forgot at the moment that Lucy and he had not
met, and therefore she did not introduce them.
“ Won*t you make me known to your sister-in-law ? ” said he,
taking off iiis hat, and bowing to Lucy. “ I have never yet
had the pleasure of meeting her, though we have been neigh-
bours for a month and more.” Fanny made her excuses and
Griselda Grantly 103
introduced them, and then they went on till they came to
Framley Gate, Lord Lufton talking to them both, and Fanny
answering for the two, and there they stopped for a moment.
“ I am surprised to see you alone,” Mrs. Robarts had just
said ; “ I thought that Captain Culpepper was with you.”
“The captain has left me for this one day. If you’ll whisper
ril tell you where he has gone. I dare not speak it out loud,
even to the woods.”
“To what terrible place can he have taken himself? 1*11
have no whisperings about such horrors.**
“ He has gone to — to — but you’ll promise not to tell my
mother ? **
“ Not tell your mother 5 Well, now you have excited my
curiosity ! where can he be ? **
“ Do you proir.ise, then ? **
“ Oh, yes ! I will promise, because 1 am sure Lady Lufton
won’t ask me as to Captain Culpepper’s whereabouts. We
won’t tell ; will we, Lucy ? ”
“He has gone to Gatherum Castle for a day’s pheasant
-shooting. Now, mind, you must not betray us. Her ladyship
supposes that he is shut up in his room with a toothache. We
did not dare to mention the name to her.” And then it
appeared that Mrs. Robarts had some engagement which
made it necessary that she should go up and see Lady Lufton,
whereas Lucy was intending to w^alk on to the parsonage
alone.
“ And I have promised to go to your husband,” said Lord
Lufton; “or rather to your husband’s dog, Ponto. And I
will do two other good things — I will carry a brace of
pheasants with me, and protect Miss Robarts from the evil
spirits of the Framley roads.” And so Mrs. Robarts turned in
at the gate, and Lucy and his lordship walked off together.
Lord Lufton, though he had never before spoken to Miss
Robarts, had already found out that she was by no means
plain. Though he had hardly seen her except at church, he
had already made himself certain that the owner of that face
must be worth knowing, and was not sorry to have the present
opportunity of speaking to her. “ So you have an unknown
damsel shut up in your castle,” he had once said to Mrs.
Robarts. “If she be kept a prisoner much longer, I shall
find it my duty to come and release her by force of arms.”
He had been there twice with the object of seeing her, but on
both occasions Lucy had managed to escape. Now we may
say she was fairly caught, and Lord Lufton, taking a pair of
104 Framley Parsonage
pheasants from the gamekeeper, and swinging them over his
shoulder, walked off with his prey. “You have been here a
long time,” he said, “ without our having had the pleasure of
seeing you.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Lucy. Lords had not been frequent
among her acquaintance hitherto.
“ I tell Mrs. Robarts that she has been confining you illegally,
and that we shall release you by force or stratagem.”
“ I — I — I have had a great sorrow lately.”
“Yes, Miss Robarts; 1 know you have; and I am only
joking, you know. But I do hope that now you will be able
to come amongst us. My mother is so anxious that you
should do so.”
“ I am sure she is very kind, and you also — my lord.”
“1 never knew my own father,” said Lord Lufton, speaking
gravely. “ But I can well understand what a loss you have
had.” And then, after pausing a moment, he continued, “I
remember Dr. Robarts well.”
“ Do you, indeed ? ” said Lucy, turning sharply towards him,
and speaking now with some animation in her voice. Nobody
had yet spoken to her about her father since she had been
at Framley. It had been as though the subject were a for-
bidden one. And how frequently is this the case ! When
those we love are dead, our friends dread to mention them,
though to us who are bereaved no subject would be so pleasant
as their names. But we rarely understand how to treat our
own sorrow or those of others.
There was once a people in some land — and they may be
still there for what 1 know — who thought it sacrilegious to stay
the course of a raging fire. If a house were being burned,
burn it must, even though there were facilities for saving it.
For who would dare to interfere with the course of the god ?
Our idea of sorrow is much the same. We think it wicked, or
at any rate heartless, to put it out. If a man’s wife be dead,
he should go about lugubrious, with long face, for at least
two years, or perhaps with full length for eighteen months,
decreasing gradually during the other six. If he be a man
who can quench his sorrow — put out his fire as it were — in
less time than that, let him at any rate not show his
power 1
“ Yes : I remember him,” continued Lord Lufton. “ He
came twice to Framley while 1 was a boy, consulting with my
mother about Mark and myself, — whether the Eton floggings
were not more efficacious than those at Hariow. He was
Griselda Grantly 105
very kind to me, foreboding all manner of good things on my
behalf.”
“ He was very kind to every one,” said Lucy.
•• I should think he would have been — a kind, good, genial
man — ^just the man to be adored by his own family.”
Exactly ; and so he was. I do not remember that 1 ever
heard an unkind word from him. There was not a harsh tone
in his voice. And he was generous as the day.” Lucy, we
have said, was not generally demonstrative, but now, on this
subject, and with this absolute stranger, she became almost
eloquent.
I do not wonder that you should feel his loss. Miss
Robarts.”
‘‘Oh, I do feel it. Mark is the best of brothers, and, as
for Fanny, she is too kind and too good to me. But I had
always been specially my father’s friend. For the last year
or two we had lived so much together ! ”
“ He was an old man when he died, was he not ? ”
“ Just seventy, my lord.”
“ Ah, then he was old. My mother is only fifty, and we
sometimes call her the old woman. Do you think she looks
older than that ? We all say that she makes herself out to be
so much more ancient than she need do.”
“ Lady Lufton does not dress young.”
” That is it. She never has, in my memory. She always
used to wear black when I first recollect her. She has given
that up now ; but she is still very sombre ; is she not ? ”
‘‘ I do not like ladies to dress very young, that is, ladies of
-of ”
‘‘ Ladies of fifty, we will say ? ”
‘‘ Very well ; ladies of fifty, if you like it.”
‘‘ Then I am sure you will like my mother.”
They had now turned up through the parsonage wicket, a
little gate that opened into the garden at a point on the road
nearer than the chief entrance. “ 1 suppose 1 shall find Mark
up at the house ? ” said he.
“ I daresay you will, my lord.”
“ Well, I’ll go round this way, for my business is partly in
the stable. You see I am quite at home here, though you
never have seen me before. But, Miss Robarts, now that the
ice is broken, I hope that we may be friends.” He then put
out his hand, and when she gave him hers he pressed it almost
as an old friend might have done. And, indeed, Lucy had
talked to him almost as though he were an old friend. For a
io6 Framley Parsonage
minute or two she had forgotten that he was a lord and a
stranger — had forgotten also to be stiff and guarded as was her
wont. Lord Lufton had spoken to her as though he had
really cared to know her ; and she, unconsciously, had been
taken by the compliment. Lord Lufton, indeed, had not
thought much about it — excepting as thus, that he liked the
glance of a pair of bright eyes, as most other young men do
like it. But, on this occasion, the evening had been so dark,
that he had hardly seen Lucy’s eyes at all.
“Well, Lucy, I hope you liked your companion,” Mrs.
Robarts said, as the three of them clustered round the drawing-
room fire before dinner.
“ Oh, yes ; pretty well,” said Lucy.
“ That is not at all complimentary to his lordship.”
“ I did not mean to be complimentary, Fanny.”
“Lucy is a great deal too matter-of-fact for compliments,”
said Mark.
“What I meant was, that I had no great opportunity for
judging, seeing that I was only with Lord Lufton for about ten
minutes.”
“ Ah ! but there are girls here who would give their eyes for
ten minutes of Lord Lufton to themselves. You do not know
how he’s valued. He has the character of being always able
to make himself agreeable to ladies at half a minute’s
warning.",
“ Perhaps he had not the half-minute’s warning in this case,”
said Lucy, — hypocrite that she was.
“ Poor Lucy,” said her brother ; “ he was coming up to see
Ponto’s shoulder, and I am afraid he was thinking more about
the dog than you.”
“ Very likely,” said Lucy ; and then they went in to dinner.
Lucy had been a hypocrite, for she had confessed to herself,
while dressing, that Lord Lufton had been very pleasant ; but
then it is allowed to young ladies to be hypocrites when the
subject under discussion is the character of a young gentle-
man.
Soon after that Lucy did dine at Framley Court. Captain
Culpepper, in spite of his enormity with reference to Gatherum
Castle, was still staying there, as was also a clergyman from
the neighbourhood of Barchester with his wife and daughter.
This was Archdeacon Grantly, a gentleman whom we have
mentioned before, and who was as well known in the diocese
as the bishop himself — and more thought about by many
clergymen than even that illustrious prelate. Miss Grantly was
Griselda Grantly 107
a young lady not much older than Lucy Robarts, and she also
was quiet, and not given to much talking in open company.
She was decidedly a beauty, but somewhat statuesque in her
loveliness. Her forehead was high and white, but perhaps too
like marble to gratify the taste of those who are fond of flesh
and blood. Her eyes were large and exquisitely formed, but
they seldom showed much emotion. She, inaeed, was im-
passive herself, and betrayed but little of her feelings. Her
nose was nearly Grecian, not coming absolutely in a straight
line from her forehead, but doing so nearly enough to entitle
it to be considered as classical. Her mouth, too, was very
fine — artists, at least, said so, and connoisseurs in beauty ; but
to me she always seemed as though she wanted fulness of lip.
But the exquisite symmetry of her cheek and chin and lower
face no man could deny. Her hair was light, and being
always dressed with considerable care, did not detract from
her appearance ; but it lacked that richness which gives such
luxuriance to feminine loveliness. She was tall and slight, and
very graceful in her movements; but there were those who
thought that she wanted the ease and abandon of youth. They
said that she was too composed and stiff for her age, and that
she gave but little to society beyond the beauty of her form
and face. There can be no doubt, however, that she was
considered by most men and women to be the beauty of
Barsetshire, and that gentlemen from neighbouring counties
would come many miles through dirty roads on the mere hope
of being able to dance with her. Whatever attractions she
may have lacked, she had at any rate created for herself a
great reputation. She had spent two months of the last spring
in London, and even there she had made a sensation ; and
people had said that Lord Dumbello, Lady Hartletop's eldest
son, had been peculiarly struck with her.
It may be imagined that the archdeacon was proud of her,
and so, indeed, was Mrs. Grantly — more proud, perhaps, of
her daughter's beauty, than so excellent a woman should have
allowed herself to be of such an attribute. Griselda — that was
her name — was now an only daughter. One sister she had
had, but that sister had died. There were two brothers also
left, one in the Church and the other in the army. That was
the extent of the archdeacon's family, and as the archdeacon
was a very rich man — he was the only child of his father, who
had been Bishop of Barchester for a great many years ; and in
those years it had been worth a man's while to be Bishop of
Barchester — it was supposed that Miss Grantly would have a
io8 Framley Parsonage
large fortune. Mrs. Grantly, however, had been heard to say,
that she was in no hurry to see her daughter established in the
world ; — ordinary young ladies are merely married, but those
of real importance are established and this, if anything,
added to the value of the prize. Mothers sometimes depreciate
their wares by an undue solicitude to dispose of them. But to
tell the truth openly and at once — a virtue for which a novelist
does not receive very much commendation — Griselda Grantly
was, to a certain extent, already given away. Not th'-.t she,
Griselda, knew anything about it, or that the thrice happy
gentleman had been made aware of his good fortune ; nor even
had the archdeacon been told. But Mrs. Grantly and Lady
Lufton had been closeted together more than once, and terms
had been signed and sealed between them. Not signed on
parchment, and sealed with wax, as is the case with treaties
made by kings and diplomats — to be broken by the same ; but
signed with little words, and sealed with certain pressings of
the hand — a treaty which between two such contracting parties
would be binding enough. And by the terms of this treaty
Griselda Grantly was to become Lady Lufton. Lady Lufton
had hitherto been fortunate in her matrimonial speculations.
She had selected Sir George for her daughter, and Sir George,
with the utmost good-nature, had fallen in with her views.
She had selected Fanny Monsell for Mr. Robarts, and Fanny
Monsell bad not rebelled against her for a moment. There
was a prestige of success about her doings, and she felt
almost confident that her dear son Ludovic must fall in love
with Griselda. As to the lady herself, nothing. Lady Lufton
thought, could be much better than such a match for her son.
Lady Lufton, I have said, was a good churchwoman, and the
archdeacon was the very type of that branch of the Church
which she venerated. The Grantlys, too, were of a good
family — not noble, indeed ; but in such matters Lady Lufton
did not want everything. She was one of those persons who,
in placing their hopes at a moderate pitch, may fairly trust to
see them realized. She would fain that her son’s wife should
be handsome ; this she wished for his sake, that he might be
proud of his wife, and because men love to look on beauty.
But she was afraid of vivacious beauty, of those soft, sparkling
feminine charms which are spread out as lures for all the world,
soft dimples, laughing eyes, luscious lips, conscious smiles, and
easy whispers. What if her son should bring her home a
rattling, rapid-spoken, painted piece of Eve’s flesh such as this ?
Would not the glory and joy of her life be over, even though
Griselda Grantly 109
such child of their first mother should have come forth to the
present day ennobled by the blood of two dozen successive
British peers?
And then, too, Griselda’s money would not be useless.
Lady Lufton, with all her highflown ideas, was not an imprudent
woman. She knew that her son had been extravagant, though
she did not believe that he had been reckless ; and she was
well content to think that some balsam from the old bishop’s
coffers should be made to cure the slight wounds which his
early imprudence might have indicted on the carcase of the
family property. And thus, in this way, and for these reasons,
Griselda Grantly had been chosen out from all the world to be
the future Lady Lufton. Lord Lufton had met Griselda more
than once already ; had met her before these high contracting
parties had come to any terms whatsoever, and had evidently
admired her. T^rd Dunibcllo had remained silent one whole
evening in London with ineffable disgust, because Lord Lufton
had been rather particular in his attentions ; but then Lord
Dumbello’s muteness was his most eloquent mode of expression.
Both Lady Hartletop and Mrs. Grantly, when they saw him,
knew very well what he meant. But that match would not
exactly have suited Mrs. Grantly’s views. The Hartletop
people were not in her line. They belonged altogether to
another set, being connected, as we have heard before, with the
Omnium interest — “ those horrid Gatherum people,” as Lady
Lufton would say to her, raising her hands and eyebrows, and
shaking her head. Lady Lufton probably thought that they
ate babies in pies during their midnight orgies at Gatherum
Castle ; and that widows were kept in cells, and occasionally
put on racks for the amusement of the duke’s guests.
When the Robarts’s party entered the drawing-room the
Grantlys were already there, and the archdeacon’s voice
sounded loud and imposing in Lucy’s ears, as she heard him
speaking while she was yet on the threshold of the door.
“ My dear I-ady Lufton, I would believe anything on earth
about her —anything. There is nothing too outrageous for
her. Had she insisted on going there with the bishop’s apron
on, I should not have been surprised.” And then they all
knew that the archdeacon was talking about Mrs. Proudie, for
Mft. Proudie was his bugbear.
Lady Lufton after receiving her guests introduced Lucy to
Griselda Grantly. Miss Grantly smiled graciously, bowed
slightly, and then remarked in the lowest voice possible that it
was exceedingly cold. A low voice, we know, is an excellent
no
Framley Parsonage
thing in woman. Lucy, who thought that she was bound to
speak, said that it was cold, but that she did not mind it when
she was w^alking. And then Griselda smiled again, somewhat
less graciously than before, and so the conversation ended.
Miss Grantly was the elder of the two, and having seen most
of the world, should have been the best able to talk, but per-
haps she was not very anxious for a conversation with Miss
Robarts.
“So, Robarts, I hear that you have been preaching at
Chaldicotes,” said the archdeacon, still rather loudly. I saw
Sowerby the other day, and he told me that you gave them the
fag end of Mrs. Proudie’s lecture.”
“It was ill-natured of Sowerby to say the fag end,” said
Robarts. “ We divided the matter into thirds. Harold Smith
took the first part, I the last ”
“And the lady the intervening portion. You have electrified
the county between you ; but I am told that she had the best
of it.”
“ I was so sorry that Mr. Robarts went there,” said Lady
Lufton, as she walked into the dining-room leaning on the
archdeacon’s arm.
“ I am inclined to think he could not very well have helped
himself,” said the archdeacon, who was never willing to lean
heavily on a brother parson, unless on one who had utterly and
irrevocably gone away from his side of the church.
“ Do you think not, archdeacon ? ”
“ Why, no : Sowerby is a friend of Lufton’s ”
“Not particularly,” said poor Lady Lufton, in a deprecating
tone.
“ Well, they have been intimate ; and Robarts, when he was
asked to preach at Chaldicotes, could not well refuse.”
“But then he went afterwards to Gatherum Castle. Not
that I am vexed with him at all now, you understand. But it
is such a dangerous house, you know.”
“ So it is. — But the very fact of the duke’s wishing to have a
clergyman there, should always be taken as a sign of grace.
Lady Lufton. The air was impure, no doubt ; but it was less
impure with Robarts there than it would have been without
him. But, gracious heavens ! what blasphemy have I been
saying about impure air ? Why, the bishop was there ! ”
“ Yes, the bishop was there,” said Lady Lufton, and they
both understood each other thoroughly.
Lord Lufton took out Mrs. Grantly to dinner, and matters
were so managed that Miss Grantly sat on his other side.
Griselda Grantly in
There was no management apparent in this to anybody ; but
there she was, while Lucy was placed between her brother and
Captain Culpepper. Captain Culpepper was a man with an
enormous moustache, and a great aptitude for slaughtering
game ; but as he had no other strong characteristics it was not
probable that he would make himself very agreeable to poor
Lucy. She had seen Lord Lufton once, for two m.inutes, since
the day of ‘hat walk, and then he had addressed her quite like
an old friend. It had been in the parsonage drawing-room,
and Fanny had been there. Fanny now was so well
accustomed to his lordship, that she thought but little of this,
but to Lucy it had been very pleasant. lie was not forward
or familiar, but kind, and gentle, and pleasant ; and Lucy did
feel that she liked him. Now, on this evening, he had hitherto
hardly spoken to her ; hut then she knew that there were other
people in the company to whom he was bound to speak.
She was not exactly humble-minded in the usual sense of the
word ; but she did recognize the fact that her position was less
important than that of other people there, and that therefore it
was probable that to a certain extent she would be overlooked.
But not the less would she have liked to occupy the seat to
which Miss Grantly had found her way. She did not want to
flirt with Lord Lufton ; she was not such a fool as that ; but
she would have liked to have heard the sound of his voice
close to her ear, instead of that of Captain Culpepper’s knife and
fork. This was the first occasion on which she had endeav-
oured to dress herself with care since her father had died ; and
now, sombre though she was in her deep mourning, she did
look very well.
“ There is an expression about her forehead that is full of
poetry,” Fanny had said to her husband.
“ Don’t you turn her head, Fanny, and make her believe
that she is a beauty,” Mark had answered.
“ 1 doubt it is not so easy to turn her head, Mark. There
is more in Lucy than you imagine, and so you will find out
before long.” It was thus that Mrs. Robarts prophesied about
her sister-in-law. Had she been asked she might perhaps
have said that Lucy’s presence would be dangerous to the
Grantly interest at Framley Court.
Lord Lufton’s voice was audible enough as he went on
talking to Miss Grantly — his voice, but not his words. He
talked in such a way that there was no appearance of whispering,
and yet the person to whom he spoke, and she only, could hear
what he said. Mrs. Grantly the while conversed constantly
1 12 Framley Parsonage
with Lucy's brother, who sat at Lucy’s left hand. She
never lacked for subjects on which to speak to a country
clergyman of the right sort, and thus Griselda was left quite
uninterrupted. But Lucy could not but observe that Griselda
herself seemed to have very little to say — or at any rate to say
very little. Every now and then she did open her mouth, and
some word or brace of words would fall from it. But for the
most part she seemed to be content in the fact that Lord
Lufton was paying her attention. She showed no animation,
but sat there still and graceful, composed and classical, as she
always was. Lucy, who could not keep her ears from listening
or her eyes from looking, thought that had she been there she
would have endeavoured to take a more prominent part in the
conversation. But then Griselda Grantly probably knew much
better than Lucy did how to comport herself in such a situa-
tion. Perhaps it might be that young men, such as Lord
Lufton, liked to hear the sound of their own voices.
“ Immense deal of game about here,” Captain Culpepper
said to her towards the end of the dinner. It was the second
attempt he had made ; on the former he had asked her
whether she knew any of the fellows of the 9th.
“ Is there ? ” said Lucy. “ Oh ! I saw Lord Lufton the
other day with a great armful of pheasants.”
“ An armful I Why, we had seven cartloads the other day
at Gathetum.”
“ Seven carts full of pheasants ! ” said Lucy, amazed.
“That’s not so much. We had eight guns, you know.
Eight guns will do a deal of work when the game has been well
got together. They manage all that capitally at Gatherum.
Been at the duke’s, eh ? ” Lucy had heard the Framley report
as to Gatherum Castle, and said with a sort of shudder that
she had never been at that place. After this, Captain Cul-
pepper troubled her no further.
When the ladies had taken themselves to the drawing-room
Lucy found herself hardly better off than she had been at the
dinner-table. Lady Lufton and Mrs. Grantly got themselves
on to a sofa together, and there chatted confidentially into each
other’s ears. Her ladyship had introduced Lucy and Miss
Grantly, and then she naturally thought that the young people
might do very well together. Mrs. Robarts did attempt to
bring about a joint conversation, which should include the
three, and for ten minutes or so she worked hard at it. But it
did not thrive. Miss Grantly was monosyllabic, smiling, how-
ever, at every monosyllable; and Lucy found that nothing
Griselda Grantly 113
would occur to her at that moment worthy of being spoken.
There she sat, still and motionless, afraid to take up a book,
and thinking in her heart how much happier she would have
been at home at the parsonage. She was not made for society;
she felt sure of that ; and another time she would let Mark and
Fanny come to Framley Court by themselves. And then the
gentlemen came in, and there was another stir m the room.
Lady Luftcn got up and bustled about ; she poked the fire and
shifted the candles, spoke a few words to Dr. Grantly, whispered
something to her son, patted Lucy on the cheek, told Fanny,
who was a musician, that they would have a little music, and
ended by putting her two hands on Griselda’s shoulders and
telling her that the fit of her frock was perfect. For I>ady
Lufton, though she did dress old herself, as Lucy had said,
delighted to see tho:;e around her neat and pretty, jaunty and
graceful.
“ Dear Lady Lufton ! ” said Griselda, putting up her hand
so as to press the end of her ladyship’s fingers. It was the first
piece of animation she had shown, and Lucy Robarts watched
it all. And then there was music. Lucy neither played nor
sang; Fanny did both, and for an amateur did both well.
Griselda did not sing, but she played; and did so in a
manner that showed that neither her own labour nor her
father’s money had been spared in her instruction. Lord
Lufton sang also, a little, and Captain Culpepper a very little ;
so that they got up a concert among them. In the meantime
the doctor and Mark stood talking together on the rug before
the fire ; the two mothers sat contented, watching the billings
and the cooings of their offspring — and Lucy sat alone, turning
over the leaves of a book of pictures. She made up her mind
fully, then and there, that she was quite unfitted by disposition
for such work as this. She cared for no one, and no one cared
for her. Well, she must go through with it now ; but another
time she would know better. With her own book and a fire-
side she never felt herself to be miserable as she was now.
She had turned her back to the music, for she was sick of
seeing Lord Lufton watch the artistic motion of Miss Grantly’s
fingers, and was sitting at a small table as far away from the
piano as a long room would permit, when she was suddenly
roused from a reverie of self-reproach by a voice close behind
her : “ Miss Robarts,” said the voice, “ why have you cut us
all ? ” and Lucy felt that, though she heard the words plainly,
nobody else did. Lord Lufton was now speaking to her as he
had before spoken to Miss Grantly.
1 14 Framley Parsonage
“I don’t play, my lord,” said Lucy, “nor yet sing.”
“That would have made your company so much more
valuable to us, for we are terribly badly oflf for listeners.
Perhaps you don*t like music ? ”
“ I do like it, — sometimes very much.”
“ And when are the sometimes ? But we shall find it all out
in time. We shall have unravelled all your mysteries, and
read all your riddles by — when shall I say ? — by the end of the
winter. Shall we not ? ”
“ I do not know that I have got any mysteries.”
“ Oh, but you have ! It is very mysterious in you to come
and sit here with your back to us all ”
“ Oh, Lord Lufton ; if I have done wrong 1 ” and poor
Lucy almost started from her chair, and a deep flush came
across her dark cheek.
“ No — no ; you have done no wrong. I was only joking.
It is we who have done wrong in leaving you to yourself — you
who are the greatest stranger among us.”
“ I have been very well, thank you. I don’t care about
being left alone. I have always been used to it.”
“ Ah ! but we must break you of the habit. We won’t allow
you to make a hermit of yourself. But the truth is, Miss
Robarts, you don’t know us yet, and therefore you are not
quite happy among us.”
“ Oh ! ,yes, I am ; you are all very good to me.”
“ You must let us be good to you. At any rate, you must
let me be so. You know, don’t you, that Mark and I have
been dear friends since we were seven years old. His wife
has been my sister’s dearest friend almost as long ; and now
that you are with them, you must be a dear friend too. You
won’t refuse the offer, will you ? ”
“ Oh, no,” she said, quite in a whisper ; and, indeed, she
could hardly raise her voice above a whisper, fearing that tears
would fall from her tell-tale eyes.
“ Dr. and Mrs. Grantly will have gone in a couple of days,
and then we must get you down here. Miss Grantly is to
remain for Christmas, and you two must become bosom
friends.” Lucy smiled, and tried to look pleased, but she felt
that she and Griselda Grantly could never be bosom friends —
could never have anything in common between them. She
felt sure that Griselda despised her, little, brown, plain, and
unimportant as she was. She herself could not despise
Griselda ih turn; indeed she could not but admire Miss
Grantly’s great beauty and dignity of demeanour ; but she knew
The Little Bill 115
that she could never love her. It is hardly possible that the
proud-hearted should love those who despise them ; and Lucy
Robarts was very proud-hearted.
“ Don’t you think she is very handsome ? ” said Lord
Lufton.
“ Oh, very,” said Lucy. “ Nobody can doubt that.”
“ Ludovic,” said Lady Lufton — not quite approving of her
son’s remai.iing so long at the back of Lucy’s chair — “ won’t
you give us another song ? Mrs. Robarts and Miss Grantly
are still at the piano.”
“ I have sung away all that I knew, mother. There’s
Culpepper has not had a chance yet. He has got to give us
his dream — how he ‘ dreamt that he dwelt in marble hails ! ’ ”
I sang that an hour ago,” said the captain, not over pleased.
“ But you certainly have not told us how ‘ your little lovers
came ! ’ ” The captain, however, would not sing any more.
And then the party was broken up, and the Robartses went
home to their parsonage.
CHAPTER XT I
THE LITTLE BILL
Lucy, during those last fifteen minutes of her sojourn in the
Framley Court drawing-room, somewhat modified the very
strong opinion she had before formed as to her unfitness for
such society. It was very pleasant sitting there in that easy-
chair, while Lord Lufton stood at the back of it saying nice,
soft, good-natured words to her. She was sure that in a little
time she could feel a true friendship for him, and that she
could do so without any risk of falling in love with him. But
then she had a glimmering of an idea that such a friendship
would be open to all manner of remarks, and would hardly be
compatible with the world’s ordinary ways. At any rate it
would be pleasant to be at Framley Court, if he would come
and occasionally notice her. But she did not admit to herself
that suc^ a visit would be intolerable if his whole time were
devoted to Griselda Grantly. She neither admitted it, nor
thought it; but nevertheless, in a strange unconscious way,
such a feeling did find entrance in her bosom. And then the
(Christmas holidays passed away. How much of this enjoy-
ment fell to her share, and how much of this suffering she
endured, we wdll not attempt accurately to describe. Miss
Grantly remained at Framley Court up to Twelfth Night,
1 16 Framley Parsonage
and the Robartses also spent most of the season at the house
Lady Lufton, no doubt, had hoped that everything might hav
been arranged on this occasion in accordance with her wishei .
but such had not been the case. Lord Lufton had evident!;
admired Miss Grantly very much : indeed, he had said so tc
his mother half-a-dozen times ; but it may almost be questioned
whether the pleasure Lady Lufton derived from this was not
more than neutralized by an opinion he once put forward that
Griselda Grantly wanted some of the fire of Lucy Robarts.
“Surely, Ludovic, you would never compare the two girls,”
said Lady Lufton.
“ Of course not. They are the very antipodes to each other.
Miss Grantly would probably be more to my taste ; but then 1
am wise enough to know that it is so because my taste is a bad
taste.”
“ 1 know no man with a more accurate or refined taste in such
matters,” said Lady Lufton. Beyond this she did not dare to
go. She knew very well that her strategy would be vain should
her son once learn that she had a strategy. To tell the truth.
Lady Lufton was becoming somewhat indifferent to Lucy
Robarts. She had been very kind to the little girl ; but the little
girl seemed hardly to appreciate the kindness as she should do
— and then Lord Lufton would talk to Lucy, " which was so
unnecessary, you know and Lucy had got into a way of talk
ing quito freely with Lord Lufton, having completely dropped
that short, spasmodic, ugly exclamation of “ my lord.” And so
the Christmas festivities were at an end, and January wore
itself away. During the greater part of this month Lord Lufton
did not remain at Framley, but was nevertheless in the county,
hunting with the hounds of both divisions, and staying at
various houses. Two or three nights he spent at Chaldicotes ;
and one — let it only be told in an under voice — at Gatherum
Castle ! Of this he said nothing to Lady Lufton. ‘‘ Why
make her unhappy ? ” as he said to Mark. But Lady Lufton
knew it, though she said not a word to him — knew it, and was
unhappy. “ If he would only marry Griselda, there would be
an end of that danger,” she said to herself.
But now we must go back for a while to the vicar and his
little bill. It will be remembered, that his first idea with
reference to diat trouble, after the reading of his father’s will,
was to borrow the money from his brother John. John was
down at Exeter at the time, and was to stay one night at the
parsonage on his way to London. Mark would broach the
matter to him on the journey, painful though it would be to
The Little Bill 117
lim to tell the story of his own folly to a brother so much
■lounger than himself, and who had always looked up to him,
lergyman and full-blown vicar as he was, with a deference
greater than that which such difference in age required. The
•story was told, however ; but was told all in vain, as Mark
found cut before he reached Framley. His brother John
immediately declared that he would lend him the money, of
course — ei^^ht hundred, if his brother wanted it. iHe, John,
confessed that, as regarded the remaining two, he should like
to feel the pleasure of immediate possession. As for interest,
he would not take any — take interest from a brother ! of course
not. Well, if Mark made such a fuss about it, he supposed
he must take it ; but would rather not. Mark should have his
own way, and do just what he liked.
This was all very vveH, and Mark had fully made up his mind
that his brother should not be kept long out of his money.
But then arose the question, how was that money to be reached ?
He, Mark, was executor, or one of the executors under his
father’s will, and, therefore, no doubt, could put his hand upon
it ; but his brother wanted five months of being of age, and
could not therefore as yet be put legally in possession of the
legacy. “ That’s a bore,” said the assistant private secretary to
the Lord Petty Bag, thinking, perhaps, as much of his own
immediate wish for ready cash as he did of his brother’s
necessities. Mark felt that it was a bore, but there was nothing
more to be done in that direction. He must now find out how
far the bankers could assist him.
Some week or two after his return to Framley he went over
to Barchester, and called there on a certain Mr. Forrest, the
manager of one of the banks, with whom he was acquainted ;
and with many injunctions as to secrecy told this manager the
whole of his story. At first he concealed the name of his friend
Sowerby, but it soon appeared that no such concealment was of
any avail. “ That Sowerby, of course,” said Mr. Forrest. “ I
know you are intimate with him ; and all his friends go through
that, sooner or later.” It seemed to Mark as though Mr. Forrest
made very light of the whole transaction.
'*1 cannot possibly pay the bill when it falls due,” said
Mark.
“’Oh, no, of course not,” said Mr. Forrest. “ It’s never very
convenient to hand out four hundred pounds at a blow. Nobody
will expect you to pay it ! ”
“ But 1 suppose 1 shall have to do it sooner or later ? ”
“ Well, that’s as may be. It will depend partly on how you
ii8 Framley Parsonage
manage with Sowerby, and partly on the hands it gets into.
As the bill has your name on it, they'll have patience as long
as the interest is paid, and the commissions on renewal. But
no doubt it will have to be met some day by somebody.” Mr.
Forrest said that he was sure that the bill was not in Barchester ;
Mr. Sowerby would not, he thought, have brought it to a Bar-
chester bank. The bill was probably in London, but doubtless
would be sent to Barchester for collection. “ If it comes in
my way,” said Mr. Forrest, “ I will give you plenty of lime, so
that you may manage about the renewal with Sowerby. I
suppose he'll pay the expense of doing that.”
Mark's heart was somewhat lighter as he left the bank. Mr.
Forrest had made so little of the whole transaction that he felt
himself justified in making little of it also. *'It may be as
well,” said he to himself, as he drove home, “ not to tell Fanny
anything about it till the three months have run round. I
must make some arrangement then.” And in this way his
mind was easier during the last of those three months than
it had been during the two former. That feeling of overdue
bills, of bills coming due, of accounts overdrawn, of trades-
men unpaid, of general money cares, is very dreadful at first ;
but it is astonishing how soon men get used to it. A load
which would crush a man at first becomes, by habit, not only
endurable, but easy and comfortable to the bearer. The
habitual'debtor goes along jaunty and with elastic step, almost
enjoying the excitement of his embarrassments. There was
Mr. Sowerby himself ; who ever saw a cloud on his brow ? It
made one almost in love with ruin to be in his company. And
even now, already, Mark Robarts was thinking to himself quite
comfortably about this bill ; — how very pleasantly those bankers
managed these things. Pay it I No ; no one will be so un-
reasonable as to expect you to do that ! And then Mr. Sowerby
certainly was a pleasant fellow, and gave a man something in
return for his money. It was still a question with Mark
whether Lord Lufton had not been too hard on Sowerby.
Had that gentleman fallen across his clerical friend, at the
present moment, he might no doubt have gotten from him an
acceptance for another four hundred pounds.
One is almost inclined to believe that there is something
pleasurable in the excitement of such embarrassments, as there
is also in the excitement of drink. But then, at last, the time
does coma when the excitement is over, and when nothing but
the misery is left. If there be an existence of wretchedness on
earth it must be that of the elderly worn-out rou^^ who has run
The Little Bill 119
this race of debt and bills of accommodation and acceptances
— of what, if we were not in these days somewhat afraid of good
broad English, we might call lying and swindling, falsehood and
fraud — ^and who, having ruined all whom he should have loved,
having burnt up every one who would trust him much, and
scorched all who would trust him a little, is at last left to finish
his life with such bread and water as these men get, without one
honest thought to strengthen his sinking heart, or one honest
friend to hold his shivering hand ! If a man could only think of
that, as he puts his name to the first little bill, as to which he
is so good-naturedly assured that it can easily be renewed !
When the three months had nearly run out, it so happened
that Robarts met his friend Sowerby. Mark had once or twice
ridden with Lord Lufton as far as the meet of the hounds, and
may, perhaps, hav'* gone a field or two farther on some occasions.
The reader must not think that he had taken to hunting, as
some parsons do ; and it is singular enough that whenever they
do so they always show a special aptitude for the pursuit, as
though hunting were an employment peculiarly congenial with
a cure of souls in the country. Such a thought would do our
vicar injustice. But when Lord Lufton would ask him what on
earth could be the harm of riding along the roads to look at the
hounds, he hardly knew what sensible answer to give his lord-
ship. It would be absurd to say that his time would be better
employed at home in clerical matters, for it was notorious that
he had not clerical pursuits for the employment of half his time.
In this way, therefore, he had got into a habit of looking at the
hounds, and keeping up his acquaintance in the county, meet-
ing Lord Dumbello, Mr. Green Walker, Harold Smith, and
other such like sinners ; and on one such occasion, as the three
months were nearly closing, he did meet Mr. Sowerby. “Look
here, Sowerby ; I want to speak to you for half a moment.
What are you doing about that bill ? **
“ Bill — bill ! what bill ? — which bill ? The whole bill, and
nothing but the bill. That seems to be the conversation
now-a-days of all men, morning, noon, and night ? ”
“ Don't you know the bill I signed for you for four hundred
pounds ? ”
“Did you, though? Was not that rather green of you?”
This did seem strange to Mark. Could it really be the fact
that Mr. Sowerby had so many bills flying about that he had
absolutely forgotten that occurrence in the Gatherum Castle
bedroom? And then to be called green by the very man
whon\ he had obliged 1
E
120
Framley Parsonage
“ Perhaps 1 was/' said Mark, in a tone that showed that he
was somewhat piqued. “ But all the same I should be glad
to know how it will be taken up.”
Oh, Mark, what a ruffian you are to spoil my day's sport
in this way. Any man but a parson would be too good a
Christian for such intense cruelty. But let me see — four
hundred pounds? Oh, yes — Tozer has it.*'
“ And what will Tozer do with it ? ”
“ Make money of it ; whatever way he may go to work he
will do that.”
“ But will Tozer bring it to me on the 20th ? **
“ Oh, Lord, no ! Upon my word, Mark, you are deliciously
green. A cat would as soon think of killing a mouse directly
she got it into her claws. But, joking apart, you need not
trouble yourself. Maybe you will hear no more about it ; or,
perhaps, which no doubt is more probable, I may have to send
it to you tc» be renewed. But you need do nothing till you
hear from me or somebody else.**
‘‘Only do not let any one come down upon me for the
money.**
“There is not the slightest fear of that. Tally-ho, old
fellow ! He's away. Tally-ho ! right over by Gossetts* barn.
Come along, and never mind Tozer — ‘ Sufficient for the day is
the evil thereof.* ** And away they both went together, parson
and member of Parliament. And then again on that occasion
Mark went home with a sort of feeling that the bill did not
matter. Tozer would manage it somehow ; and it was quite
clear that it would not do to tell his wife of it just at present.
On the 2ist of that month of February, however, he did
receive a reminder that the bill and all concerning it had not
merely been a farce. This was a letter from Mr. Sowerby,
dated from Chaldicotes, though not bearing the Barchester
post-mark, in which that gentleman suggested a renewal — not
exactly of the old bill, but of a new one. It seemed to Mark
that the letter had been posted in London. If 1 give it entire,
I shall, perhaps, most quickly explain its purport ;
“Chaldicotes, — 20th February, 185 — .
“My dear Mark, — ‘Lend not thy name to the money-
dealers, for the same is a destruction and a snare.* If that be
not in the Proverbs, it ought to be. Tozer has given me
certain sign; oi his being dive and strong this cold weather.
As we can neither of us take up that bill for 400/. at the
eaoment, we^must renew it, and pay him his commission and
121
The Little Bill
interest, with all the rest of his perquisites, and pickings, and
stealings — from all which, I can assure you, Tozer does not
keep his hands as he should do. To cover this and some
other little outstanding trifles, I have filled in the new bill for
500/., making it due 23rd of May next. Before that time, a
certain accident will, I trust, have occurred to your im-
poverished friend. By-the-by, 1 never told you how she went
oflf from Gatherum Castle, the morning after you left us, with
the Greshams. Cart-ropes would not hold her, even though
the duke held them ; which he did, with all the strength of
his ducal hands. She would go to meet some doctor of theirs,
and so 1 was put off for that time ; but I think that the matter
stands in a good train.
Do not lose a post in sending back the bill accepted, as
Tozer may annoy you — nay, undoubtedly will, if the matter be
not in his hand, duly signed by both of us, the day after to-
morrow. He is an ungrateful brute ; he has lived on me for
these eight years, and would not let me off a single squeeze
now to save my life. But I am specially anxious to save
you from the annoyance and cost of lawyers* letters ; and if
delayed, it might get into the papers. Put it under cover to
me, at No. 7, Duke Street, St. James*s. I shall be in town by
that lime.
“ Good-bye, old fellow. That was a decent brush we had the
other day from Cobbold's Ashes. I wish I could get that
brown horse from you. 1 would not mind going to a hundred
and thirty.
“ Yours ever,
“ N. SOWEKBY.”
When Mark had read it through he looked down on his
table to see whether the old bill had fallen from the letter ;
but no, there was no enclosure, and had been no enclosure,
but the new bill. And then he read the letter through again,
and found that there was no word about the old bill — not a
syllable, at least, as to its whereabouts. Sowerby did not even
say that it would remain in his own hands. Mark did not in
truth know much about such things. It might be that the
very fact of his signing this second document would render
that first document null and void ; and from Sowerby’s silence
on the subject, it might be argued that this was so well known
to be the case, that he had not thought of explaining it But
yet Mark could not see how this should be so. But what was
he tp do ? That threat of cost and lawyers, and specially at/
122 Framley Parsonage
the newspapers, did have its effect upon him — as no doubt it
was intended to do. And then he was utterly dumfounded
by Sowerby’s impudence in drawing on him for 500/. instead
of 400/., “covering,” as Sowerby so good-humouredly said,
sundry little outstanding trifles.”
But at last he did sign the bill, and sent it off, as Sowerby
had directed. What else was he to do ? Fool that he was.
A man always can do right, even though he has done wrong
before. But that previous wrong adds so much difficulty to
the path — a difficulty which increases in tremendous ratio, till
a man at last is choked in his struggling, and is drowned
beneath the waters. And then he put away Sowerby’s letter
carefully, locking it up from his wife's sight. It was a letter
that no parish clergyman should have received. So much
he acknowledged to himself. But nevertheless it was
necessary that he should keep it. And now again for a few
hours this affair made him very miserable.
CHAPTER XIII
DELICATE HINTS
Lady Lufton had been greatly rejoiced at that good deed
which her son did in giving up his Leicestershire hunting, and
coming ta reside for the winter at Framley. It was proper,
and becoming, and comfortable in the extreme. An English
nobleman ought to hunt in the county where he himself owns
the fields over which he rides ; he ought to receive the
respect and honour due to him from his own tenants; he
ought to sleep under a roof of his own, and he ought also—
so Lady Lufton thought — to fall in love with a young embryo
bride of his own mother's choosing. And then it was so
pleasant to have him there in the house. Lady Lufton was
not a woman who allowed her life to be what people in
common parlance call dull. She had too many duties, and
thought too much of them, to allow of her suffering from
tedium and ennui. But nevertheless the house was more
joyous to her when he was there. There was a reason for
some little gaiety, which would never have been attracted
thither by herself, but which, nevertheless, she did enjoy when
it was brought about by his presence. She was younger and
brighter when he was there, thinking more of the future and
less of the past. She could look at him, and that alone was
happiness to her. And then he was pleasant-mannered with
Delicate Hints 123
her ; joking with her on her little old-world prejudices in a
tone that was musical to her ear as coming from him ; smiling
on her, reminding her of those smiles which she had loved
so dearly when as yet he was all her own, lying there in his
little bed beside her chair. He was kind and gracious to her,
behaving like a good son, at any rate while he was there
in her presence. When we add to this, her fears that he
might noi be so perfect in his conduct when absent, we may
well imagine that Lady Lufton was pleased to have him there
at Framlcy Court.
She had hardly said a word to him as to that five thousand
pounds. Many a night, as she lay thinking on her pillow, she
said to herself that no money had ever been better expended,
since it had brought him back to his own house. He
had thanked her for il in his own open way, declaring that
he would pay it back to her during the coming year, and
comforting her heart by his rejoicing that the property had
not been sold. “ I don’t like the idea of parting with an acre
of it,” he had said.
“ Of course not, Ludovic. Never let the estate decrease
in your hands. It is only by such resolutions as that that
English noblemen and English gentlemen can preserve their
country. I cannot bear to see properly changing hands.”
“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing to have land in the
market sometimes, so that the millionaires may know what to
do with their money.”
“ God forbid that yours should be there I ” And the
widow made a little mental prayer that her son’s acres might
be protected from the millionaires and other Philistines.
“ Why, yes : I don’t exactly want to see a Jew tailor investing
his earnings at Lufton,” said the lord.
“ Heaven forbid ! ” said the widow. All this, as I have said,
was very nice. It was manifest to her ladyship, from his
lordship’s way of talking, that no vital injury had as yet been
done : he had no cares on his mind, and spoke freely about
the property : but nevertheless there were clouds even now,
at this period of bliss, which somewhat obscured the brilliancy
of Lady Lufton’s sky. Why was Ludovic so slow in that
affair of Griselda Grantly ? why so often in these latter winter
days did he saunter over to the parsonage ? And then that
terrible visit to Gatherum Castle ! What actually did happen
at Gatherum Castle, she never knew. We, however, are more
intrusive, less delicate in our inquiries, and we can say. He
had a. very bad day’s sport with the West Barsetshire. The
124 Framley Parsonage
county is altogether short of foxes, and some one who under-
stands the matter must take that point up before they can
do any good. And after that he had had rather a dull dinner
with the duke. Sower by had been there, and in the evening
he and Sowerby had played billiards. Sowerby had won a
pound or two, and that had been the extent of the damage
done. But those saunterings over to the parsonage might be
more dangerous. Not that it ever occurred to Lady Lufton as
possible that her son should fall in love with Lucy Rob arts.
Lucy’s personal attractions were not of a nature to give ground
for such a fear as that. But he might turn the girl’s head
with his chatter ; she might be fool enough to fancy any folly :
and, moreover, people would talk. Why should he go to
the parsonage now more frequently than he had ever done
before Lucy came there ?
And then her ladyship, in reference to the same trouble,
hardly knew how to manage her invitations to the parsonage.
These hitherto had been very frequent, and she had been in
the habit of thinking that they could hardly be too much so ;
but now she was almost afraid to continue the custom. She
could not ask the parson and his wife wiihuut Lucy ; and when
Lucy was there, her son would pass the greater part of the
evening in talking to her, or playing chess with her. Now^ this
did disturb Lady Lufton not a little. And then Lucy took it
all so quietly. On her first arrival at Framley she had been so
shy, so silent, and so much awestruck by the grandeur of
Framley Court, that Lady Lufton had sympathized with her
and encouraged her. She had endeavoured to moderate the
blaze of her own splendour, in order that Lucy’s unaccustomed
eyes might not be dazzled. But all this was changed now.
Lucy could listen to the young lord’s voice by the hour
together — without being dazzled in the least. Under these
circumstances two things occurred to her. She would speak
either to her son or to Fanny Robarts, and by a little diplomacy
have this evil remedied. And then she had to determine on
which step she would take. Nothing could be more reason-
able than Ludovic.” So at least she said to herself over and
over again. But then Ludovic understood nothing about such
matters ; and had, moreover, a habit, inherited from his father,
of taking the bit between his teeth whenever he suspected
interference. Drive him gently without pulling his mouth
about, and you might take him anywhere, almost at any pace ;
but a smart touch, let it be ever so slight, would bring him on
bis haunches, and then it might be a question whether you
Delicate Hints 125
could get him another mile that day. So that on the whole
Lady Lufton thought that the other plan would be the best.
I have no doubt that Lady Lufton was right.
She got Fanny up into her own den one afternoon, and
seated her discreetly in an easy armchair, making her guest
take oflf her bonnet, and showing by various signs that the visit
was regarded as one of great moment. “ Fanny,” she said, “ I
want to speak to you about something that is important and
necessary to mention, and yet it is a very delicate affair to
speak of.” Fanny opened her eyes, and said that she hoped
that nothing was wrong. “ No, my dear, I think nothing is
wrong : I hope so, and I think I may say Tm sure of it : but
then it*s always well to be on one’s guard.”
“Yes, it is,” said Fanny, who knew that something un-
pleasant was coming — something as to which she might pro-
bably be called upon to differ from her ladyship. Mrs. Robarts’
own fears, however, were running entirely in the direction of
her husband ; — and, indeed, T^ady Lufton had a word or two
to say on that subject also, only not exactly now. A hunting
parson was not at all to her taste ; but that matter might be
allowed to remain in abeyance for a few days.
“ Now, Fanny, you know that we have all liked your sister-in-
law, Lucy, very much.” And then Mrs. Robarts’ mind was
immediately opened, and she knew the rest as well as though
it had all been spoken. “ I need hardly tell you that, for I am
sure we have shown it.”
“ You have, indeed, as you always do.”
“ And you must not think that I am going to complain,”
continued Lady Lufton.
“ I hope there is nothing to complain of,” said Fanny, speak-
ing by no means in a defiant tone, but humbly as it were, and
deprecating her ladyship’s wrath. Fanny had gained one signal
victory over I.Kidy Lufton, and on that account, with a pru-
dence equal to her generosity, felt that she could afford to be
submissive. It might, perhaps, not be long before she would
be equally anxious to conquer again.
“ Well, no ; I don’t think there is,” said Lady Lufton.
“ Nothing to complain of ; but a little chat between you and
me may, perhaps, set matters right, which, otherwise, might
become troublesome.’*
“ Is it about Lucy ? ”
“Yes, my dear — about Lucy. She is a very nice, good girl|
and a credit to her fathe r ”
“ And a great comfort to us,” said Fanny,
126 Framley Parsonage
“ I am sure she is : she must be a very pleasant companion
to you, and so useful about the children ; but ” And then
Lady Lufton paused for a moment ; for she, eloquent and
discreet as she always was, felt herself rather at a loss for words
to express her exact meaning.
“ I don’t know what I should do without her,” said Fanny,
speaking with the object of assisting her ladyship in her
embarrassment.
“ But the truth is this : she and Lord Lufton are getting into
the way of being too much together — of talking to each other
too exclusively. I am sure you must have noticed it, Fanny.
It is not that I suspect any evil. I don’t think that 1 am
suspicious by nature.”
“ Oh ! no,” said Fanny.
“ But they will each of them get wrong ideas about the other,
and about themselves. Lucy will, perhaps, think that Ludovic
means more than he does, and Ludovic will ” But it was
not quite so easy to say what Ludovic might do or think ; but
Lady Lufton went on :
“ I am sure that you understand me, Fanny, with your ex-
cellent sense and tact. Lucy is clever, and amusing, and all
that ; and Ludovic, like all young men, is perhaps ignorant that
his attentions may be taken to mean more than he intends ”
“ You don’t think that Lucy is in love with him ?”
“Oh dear, no — nothing of the kind. If I thought it had
come to that, 1 should recommend that she should be sent
away altogether. 1 am sure she is not so foolish as that.”
“ I don’t think there is anything in it at all, Lady Lufton.”
“ I don’t think there is, my dear, and therefore I would not
for worlds make any suggestion about it to Lord Lufton. I
would not let him suppose that 1 suspected Lucy of being so
imprudent. But still, it may be well that you should just say
a word to her. A little management now and then, in such
matters, is so useful.”
“ But what shall 1 say to her ? ”
“ Just explain to her that any young lady who talks so much
to the same young gentleman will certainly be observed — that
people will accuse her of setting her cap at Lord Lufton. Not
that I suspect her — 1 give her credit for too much proper
feeling : 1 know her ^ucation has been good, and her
principles are upright. But people will talk of her. You must
understand {that, Fanny, as well as 1 do.” Fanny could not
help meditating whether proper feeling, education, and upright
principles did forbid Lucy Robarts to fall in love with Lord
Delicate Hints 127
Lufton ; but her doubts on this subject, if she held any, were
not communicated to her ladyship. It had never entered into
her mind that a match was possible between Lord Lufton and
Lucy Robarts, nor had she the slightest wish to encourage it
now that the idea was suggested to her. On such a matter
she could sympathize with Lady Lufton, though she did not
completely agree with her as to the expediency of any inter-
ference. Nevertheless, she at once offered to speak to Lucy.
“ I don’t think that Lucy has any idea in her head upon the
subject,” said Mrs. Robarts.
“ I daresay not — I don’t suppose she has. But young ladies
sometimes allow themselves to fall in love, and then to think
themselves very ill-used, just because they have had no idea in
their head.”
“ I will put her on her guard if you wish it, Lady Lufton.**
“ Exactly, my dear ; that is just it. Put her on her guard —
that is all that is necessary. She is a dear, good, clever girl,
and it would be very sad if anything were to interrupt our
comfortable way of getting on with her.” Mrs. Robarts knew
to a nicety the exact meaning of this threat. If Lucy would
persist in securing to herself so much of Lord Lufton’s time
and attention, her visits to Framley Court must become less
frequent. Lady Lufton would do much, very much, indeed, for
her friends at the parsonage ; but not even for them could
she permit her son’s prospects in life to be endangered. There
was nothing more said between them, and Mrs. Robarts got
up to take her leave, having promised to speak to Lucy.
“ You manage everything so perfectly,” said Lady Lufton,
as she pressed Mrs. Robarts’ hand, “ that I am quite at ease
now that I find you will agree with me.” Mrs. Robarts did
not exactly agree with her ladyship, but she hardly thought it
worth her while to say so. Mrs. Robarts immediately started
off on her walk to her own home, and when she had got out of
the grounds into the road, where it makes a turn towards the
parsonage, nearly opposite to Podgens’ shop, she saw Lord
Lufton on horseback, and Lucy standing beside him. It was
already nearly five o’clock, and it was getting dusk ; but as she
approached, or rather as she came suddenly within sight of
them, she could see that they were in close conversation.
Lord Lufton’s face was towards her, and his horse was standing
still ; he was leaning over towards his companion, and the whip,
which he held in his right hand, hung almost over her arm
and down her back, as though his hand had touched and per-
haps rented on her shoulder. She was standing by his side.
128 Framley Parsonage
looking np into his face, with one gloved hand resting on the
horse’s neck. Mrs. Robarts, as she saw them, could not but
own that there might be cause for Lady Lufton’s fears. But
then Lucy’s manner, as Mrs. Robarts approached, was calcu-
lated to dissipate any such fears, and to prove that there was
no ground for them. She did not move from her position, or
allow her hand to drop, or show that she was in any way either
confused or conscious. She stood her ground, and when her
sister-in-law came up was smiling and at her ease. “ Lord
Lufton wants me to learn to ride,” said she.
“ To learn to ride ! ” said Fanny, not knowing what answer
to make to such a proposition.
“ Yes,” said he. “ This horse would carry her beautifully :
he is as quiet as a lamb, and I made Gregory go out with
him yesterday with a sheet hanging over him like a lady’s
habit, and the man got up into a lady’s saddle.”
“ I think Gregory would make a better hand of it than
I.ucy.”
“ The horse cantered with him as though he had carried a
lady all his life, and his mouth is like velvet ; indeed, that is
his fault — ^he.is too soft-mouthed.”
** I suppose that’s the same sort of thing as a man being
soft-hearted,” said Lucy.
“ Exactly^ : you ought to ride them both with a very light
hand. They are difficult cattle to manage, but very pleasant
when you know how to do it.”
“ But you see I don’t know how to do it,” said Lucy,
As regards the horse, you will learn in two days, and I do
hope you will try. Don’t you think it will be an excellent
thing for her, Mrs. Robarts ? ”
“ Lucy has got no habit,” said Mrs. Robarts, making use of
the excuse common on all such occasions.
“There is one of Justinia’s in the house, I know. She
always leaves one here, in order that she may be able to ride
when she comes.”
“ She would not think of taking such a liberty with Lady
Meredith’s things,” said Fanny, almost frightened at the pro-
posal.
“Of course it is out of the question, Fanny,” said Lucy,
now speaking rather seriously. “ In the first place, I would
not take Lord Lufton's horse ; in the second place, I would not
take Lady Meredith’s habit ; in the third place, I should be a
great deal too much frightened ; and, lastly, it is quite out of
the question, for a great many other very good reasons.”
Delicate Hints 129
“ Nonsense,” said Lord Lufton.
“ A great deal of nonsense,” said Lucy, laughing, “ but all
of it of Lord Lufton’s talking. But we are getting cold — are
we not, Fanny ? — so we will wish you good night.” And then
the two ladies shook hands with him, and walked on towards
the parsonage. That which astonished Mrs. Robarts the most
in all this was the perfectly collected manner in which Lucy
spoke and conducted herself. This, connected, as she could
not but connect it, with the air of chagrin with which Lord Lufton
received Lucy’s decision, made it manifest to Mrs. Robarts
that Lord Lufton was annoyed because Lucy would not
consent to learn to ride ; whereas she, Lucy herself, had given
her refusal in a firm and decided tone, as though resolved that
nothing more should be said about it. They walked on in
silence for a minute or two, till they reached the parsonage
gate, and then Lucy said, laughing, “Can’t you fancy me
sitting on that great big horse ? I wonder what Lady Lufton
would say if she saw me there, and his lordship giving me my
first lesson ? ”
“ 1 don’t think she would like it,” said Fanny.
“ I’m sure she would not. But I will not try her temper in
that respect. Sometimes I fancy that she does not even like
seeing Lord l-.ufton talking to me.”
“ She docs not like it, Lucy, wdien she sees him flirting with
you.” Tliis Mrs. Robarts said rather gravely, >vhereas Lucy
had been speaking in a half-bantering tone. As soon as even
the word flirting was out of Fanny’s mouth, she was conscious
that slie had been guilty of an injustice in using it. She had
wished to say something which would convey to her sister-in-
law an idea of wliat Lady I^ufton would dislike ; but in doing
so, she had unintentionally brought against her an accusation.
“ Flirting, Fanny 1 ” said Lucy, standing still in the path,
and looking up into her companion’s face with all her eyes.
“ Do you mean to say that 1 have been flirting with l^rd
Lufton ? ”
“ I did not say that.”
“ Or that I have allowed him to flirt with me ? ”
“ I did not mean to shock you, Lucy.’'
•*W.hat did you mean, Fanny ? ”
“ Why, just this : that Lady Lufton would not be pleased if
he paid you marked attentions, and if you received them;
just like that affair of the riding ; it was better to decline it.”
“Of course I declined it; of course I never dreamt of
accepting such an offer. Go riding about the country on his
130 Framley Parsonage
horses ! What have I done, Fanny, that you should suppose
such a thing ? **
“ You have done nothing, dearest.”
“ Then why did you speak as you did just now ? ”
“ Because I wished to put you on your guard. You know,
Lucy, that I do not intend to find fault with you; but you
may be sure, as a rule, that intimate friendships between young
gentlemen and young ladies are dangerous things.” They then
walked up to the hall-door in silence. When they had reached
it, Lucy stood in the doorway instead of entering it, and said,
“ Fanny, let us take another turn together, if you are not
tired.”
“No, Tm not tired.”
‘‘ It will be better that I should understand you at once,” —
and then they again moved away from the house. “ Tell me
truly now, do you think that Lord LufU)n and I have been
flirting ? ”
“ I do think that he is a little inclined to flirt with you.”
“ And Lady Lufton has been asking you to lecture me
about it?” Poor Mrs. Robarts hardly knew what to say.
She thought well of all the persons concerned, and was very
anxious to behave well by all of them ; — was particularly
anxious to create no ill feeling, and wished that everybody
should be comfortable, and on good terms with everybody
else. But yet the truth was forced out of her when this
question was asked so suddenly. ” Not to lecture you, Lucy,”
she said at last.
“ Well, to preach to me, or to talk to me, or to give me a
lesson ; to say something that shall drive me to put my back
up against Lord Lufton ? ”
“ To caution you, dearest. Had you heard what she said,
you would hardly have felt angry with Lady Lufton.”
” Well, to caution me. It is such a pleasant thing for a girl
to be cautioned against falling in love with a gentleman,
especially when the gentleman is very rich, and a lord, and
all that sort of thing ! ”
“ Nobody for a moment attributes anything wrong to you,
Lucy.”
“ Anything wrong — no. I don*t know whether it would be
anything wrong, even if I were to fall in love with him. I
wonder whether they cautioned Griselda Grantly when she was
here ? 1 Suppose when young lords go about, all the girls are
cautioned as a matter of course. Why do they not label him
‘dangerous?’” And then again they were silent for a
Delicate Hints 131
moment, as Mrs. Robarts did not feel that she had anything
further to say on the matter.
“ ‘ Poison * should be the word with any one so fatal as Lord
Lufton ; and he ought to be made up of some particular
colour, for fear he should be swallowed in mistake.”
“You will be safe, you see,” said Fanny, laughing, “as you
have been specially cautioned as to this individual bottle.”
“ Ah I but what’s the use of that after I have had so many
doses ? It is no good telling me about it now ; when the
mischief is done, — after I have been taking it for I don’t know
how long. Dear ! dear ! dear 1 and I regarded it as a mere
commonplace powdtM, good for the complexion. I wonder
whether it’s too late, or whether there’s any antidote ? ” Mrs.
Robarts did not always quite understand her sister-in-law, and
now she was a little at a loss. “ 1 don’t think there’s much
harm done yet on either side,” she said, cheerily.
“ Ah ! you don’t know, Fanny. But I do think that if I die
— as 1 shall — I feel I shall ; — and if so, 1 do think it ought to
go very hard with Lady Lufion. Why didn’t she labfl him
* dangerous ’ in time?” And then they went into tlie house
and up to their own rooms. It was difficult for any one to
understand Lucy’s state of mind at present, and it can hardly
be said that she understood it herself. She felt that she had
received a severe blow in having been thus made the subject
of remark with reference to Lord Lufton. She knew that her
pleasant evenings at Framley Court were now over, and that
she could not again talk to him in an unrestrained tone and
without embarrassment. She had felt the air of the whole
[)Iace to be very cold before her intimacy with him, and now it
must be cold again. 'Pwo homes had been open to her ;
Framley Court and the Parsonage ; and now, as far as comfort
was concerned, she must confine herself to the latter. She
could not again be comfortable in Lady Lufton’s drawing-room.
But then she could not help asking herself whether Lady
Lufton was not right. She had had courage enough, and
presence of mind, to joke about the matter when her sister-in-
law spoke to her, and yet she was quite aware that it was no
joking matter. Lord Lufton had not absolutely made love to
her, but he had latterly spoken to her in a manner which she
knew was not compatible with that ordinary comfortable
masculine friendship with the idea of which she had once
satisfied herself. VVas not Fanny right when she said that
intimate friendships of that nature were dangerous things ?
Yes, Lucy, very dangerous. Lucy, before she went to bed
132 Framley Parsonage
that night, had owned to herself that they were so ; and lying
there with sleepless eyes and a moist pillow, she was driven to
confess that the label would in truth be now too late, that the
caution had come to her after the poison had been swallowed.
Was there any antidote ? That was all that was left for her
to consider. But, nevertheless, on the following morning she
could appear quite at her ease. And when Mark had left the
house after breakfast, she could still joke with Fanny as to
Lady Lufton’s poisoned cupboard.
CHAPTER XIV
MR. CRAWLEY OF HOGGLESTOCK
And then there was that other trouble in I^dy Lufton's
mind, the sins, namely, of her selected parson. She had
selected him, ^and she was by no means inclined to give him
up, even though his sins against parsondom were grievous.
Indeed she was a woman not prone to give up anything, and
of all things not prone to give up a prottgi. The very fact
that she herself had selected him was the strongest argument
in his favour. But his sins against parsondom were becoming
very grievous in her eyes, and she was at a loss to know what
steps to ^ take. She hardly dared to take him to task, him
himself. Were she to do so, and should he then tell her
to mind her own business — as he probably might do, though
not in those words — there would be a schism in the parish ;
and almost anything would be better than that. The whole
work of her life would be upset, ail the outlets of her energy
would be impeded if not absolutely closed, if a state of things
were to come to pass in which she and the parson her parish
should not be on good terms.
But what was to be done? Early in the winter he had
gone to Chaldicotes and to Gatherum Castle, consorting with
gamblers, whigs, atheists, men of loose pleasure, and
Proudieites. That she had condoned ; and now he was
turning out a hunting parson on her hands. It was all very
well for Fanny to say that he merely looked at the hounds as
he rode about his parish. Fanny might be deceived. Being
his wife, it might be her duty not to see her husband’s
iniquities. But Lady Lufton could not be deceived. She
knew very well in what part of the county Cobbold’s Ashes
lay. It was not in Framley parish, nor in the next parish to it
It was halfwav across to Chaldicotes — in the western division;
Mr. Crawley of Hogglestock 133
and she had heard of that run in which two horses had been
killed, and in which parson Robarts had won such immortal
glory among West Barsetshire sportsmen. It was not easy to
keep Lady Lufton in the dark as to matters occurring in her
own county.
All these things she knew, but as yet had not noticed,
grieving over them in her own heart the more on that account.
Spoken grief relieves itself ; and when one can give counsel,
one always hopes at least that that counsel will be effective.
To her son she had said, more than once, that it w^as a pity
that Mr. Robarts should follow the hounds. — “The world
has agreed that it is unbecoming in a clergyman,” she would
urge, in her deprecatory tone. But her son would by no
means give her any comfort. “ He doesn’t hunt, you know —
not as I do,” he would say. “ And if he did, I really don’t
see the harm of it. A man must have some amusement, even
if he be an archbishop.” “ He has amusement at home,”
Lady Lufton would answer. “What does his wife do — and
his sister ? ” This allusion to Lucy, however, was very soon
dropped.
Lord Lufton would in no wise help her. He would not
even passively discourage the vicar, or refrain from offering
to give him a seat in going to the meets. Mark and Lord
Lufton had been boys together, and his lordship knew that
Mark in his heart would enjoy a brush across the country
quite as well as he himself ; and then what was the harm of
it ? Lady Lufton’s best aid had been in Mark’s own
conscience. He had taken himself to task more than once,
and had promised himself that he would not become a sporting
parson. Indeed, where would be his hopes of ulterior
promotion, if he allowed himself to degenerate so far as that ?
It had been his intention, in reviewing what he considered
to be the necessary proprieties of clerical life, in laying out
his own future mode of living, to assume no peculiar
sacerdotal strictness ; he would not be known as a denouncer
of dancing or of card-tables, of theatres or of novel -reading;
he would take the world around him as he found it,
endeavouring by precept and practice to lend a hand to the
gradual amelioration which Christianity is producing ; but he
would attempt no sudden or majestic reforms. Cake and
ale would still be popular, and ginger be hot in the mouth,
let him preach ever so — let him be never so solemn a hermit ;
but a bright face, a true trusting heart, a strong arm, and an
humble mind, might do much in teaching those around him
134 Framley Parsonage
that men may be gay and not profligate, that women may be
devout and yet not dead to the world.
Such had been his ideas as to his own future life; and
though many would think that, as a clergyman, he should
have gone about his work with more serious devotion of
thought, nevertheless there was some wisdom in them ; — some
folly also, undoubtedly, as appeared by the troubles into which
they led him. “ I will not afl'ect to think that to be bad,”
said he to himself, which in my heart of hearts does not
seem to be bad.” And thus he resolved that he might live
without contamination among hunting squires. And then,
being a man only too prone by nature to do as others did
around him, he found by degrees that that could hardly be
wrong for him which he admitted to be right for others.
Hut still his conscience upbraided him, and he declared to
himself more than once that after this year he would hunt no
more. And then his own Fanny would look at him on his
return home on those days in a manner that cut him to the
heart. She would say nothing to him. She never inquired in
a sneering tone, and with angry eyes, whether he had enjoyed
his day’s sport : but when he spoke of it, she could not answer
him with enthusiasm ; and in other matters which concerned
him she was always enthusiastic. After a while, too, he made
matters worse, for about the end of March he did another very
foolish thing. He almost consented to buy an expensive horse
from Sowerby — an animal which he by no means wanted, and
which, if once possessed, would certainly lead him into further
TOuble. A gentleman, when he has a good horse in his stable,
does not like to leave him there eating his head off. If he be
a gig-horse, the owner of him will be keen to drive a gig ; if
a hunter, the happy possessor will wish to be with a pack of
hounds.
“ Mark,” said Sowerby to him one day, when they were out
together, “ this brute of mine is so fresh, I can hardly ride
him ; you are young and strong ; change with me for an
hour or so.” And then they did change, and the horse on
which Robarts found himself mounted went away with him
beautifully.
“ He’s a splendid animal,” said Mark, when they again
met.
“ Yes, for a man of your weight. He’s thrown away upon
me ; — too much of a horse for my purposes. 1 don’t get along
DOW quite as well as 1 used to do. He is a nice sort of hunter ;
just rising six, you know.” How it came to pass that the price
Mr. Crawley of Hogglestock 135
of the splendid animal was mentioned between them, I need
not describe with exactness. But it did come to pass that Mr.
Sowerby told the parson that the horse should be his for 130/.
“ And I really wish you*d take him,” said Sowerby. “ It would
be the means of partially relieving my mind of a great weight.”
Mark looked up into his friend’s face with an air of surprise, for
he did net at the moment understand how this should be the
case.
“ I am afraid, you know, that you will have to put your hand
into your pocket sooner or later about that accursed bill ” —
Mark shrank as the profane words struck his ears — “and I
should be glad to think that you had got something in hand in
the way of value.”
“ Do you mean that I shall have to pay the whole sum
of 500/. ? ”
“ Oh ! dear, no ; nothing of the kind. But something I
daresay you will have to pay : if you like to take Dandy for a
hundred and thirty, you can be prepared for that amount when
Tozer comes to you. The horse is dog cheap, and you will
have a long day for your money.” Mark at first declared, in a
quiet, determined tone, that he did not want the horse ; but it
afterwards appeared to him that if it were so fated that he must
pay a portion of Mr. Sowerby’s debts, he might as well repay
himself to any extent within his power. It would be as well
perhaps that he should take the horse and sell him. It did
not occur to him that by so doing he would put it in Mr.
Sowerby’s power to say that some valuable consideration had
passed between them with reference to this bill, and that he
would be aiding that gentleman in preparing an inextricable
confusion of money-matters between them. Mr. Sowerby well
knew the value of this. It would enable him to make a
plausible story, as he had done in that other case of Lord
Lufton. “ Are you going to have Dandy ? ” Sowerby said to
him again.
“ I can’t say I will just at present,” said the parson. “ What
should I want of him now the season’s over ? ”
“ Exactly, my dear fellow ; and what do I want of him now
the season’s over ? If it were the beginning of October instead
of the end of March, Dandy would be up at two hundred and
thirty instead of one : in six months’ time that horse will be
worth anything you like to ask for him. Look at his bone.”
The vicar did look at his bones, examining the brute in a very
knowing and unclerical manner. He lifted the animal’s four
feet, one after another, handling the frogs, and measuring with
136 Framley Parsonage
his eye the proportion of the parts ; he passed his hand up and
down the legs, spanning the bones of the lower joint ; he peered
into his eyes, took into consideration the width of his chest, the
dip of his back, the form of his ribs, the curve of his haunches,
and his capabilities for breathing when pressed by work. And
then he stood away a little, eyeing him from the side, and taking
in a general idea of the form and make of the whole. “ He
seems to stand over a little, I think,” said the parson.
“ It*s the lie of the ground. Move him about. Bob. There
now, let him stand there.”
“ He*s not perfect,” said Mark. “ I don’t quite like his heels ;
but no doubt he’s a nicish cut of a horse.”
“ I rather think he is. If he were perfect, as you say, he
would not be going into your stables for a hundred and thirty.
Do you ever remember to have seen a perfect horse ? ”
“Your mare Mrs. Gamp was as nearly perfect as possible.”
“ Even Mrs. Gamp had her faults. In the first place she was
a bad feeder. But one certainly doesn’t often come across
anything much better that Mrs. Gamp.” And thus the matter
was talked over between them with much stable conversation,
all of which tended to make Sowerby more and more oblivious
of his friend’s sacred piofession, and perhaps to make the vicar
himself too frequently oblivious of it also. But no : he was not
oblivious of it. He was even mindful of it ; but mindful of it
in such a manner that his thoughts on the subject were now-
adays always painful.
There is a parish called Hogglestock lying away quite in the
northern extremity of the eastern division of the county — lying
also on the borders of the western division. I almost fear that
it will become necessary, before this history be completed, to
provide a map of Barsetshire for the due explanation of all these
localities. Framley is also in the northern portion of the county,
but just to the south of the grand trunk line of railway from
which the branch to Barchester strikes off at a point some thirty
miles nearer to London. The station for Framley Court is Silver-
bridge, which is, however, in the western division of the county.
Hogglestock is to the north of the railway, the line of which,
however, runs through a portion of the parish, and it adjoins
Framley, though the churches are as much as seven miles apart.
Barsetshire, taken altogether, is a pleasant green tree-becrowded
county, with large bosky hedges, pretty damp deep lanes, and
roads with broad grass margins running along them. Such is
the general nature of the county ; but just up in its northern
exU^emity this nature alters. There it is bleak and ugly, with
Mr. Crawley of Hogglestock 137
low artificial hedges and without wood ; not uncultivated, as it
is all portioned out into new-looking large fields, bearing turnips,
and wheat, and mangel, all in due course of agricultural rotation ;
but it has none of the special beauties of English cultivation.
There is not a gentleman’s house in the parish of Hogglestock
besides that of the clergyman ; and this, though it is certainly
the house of a gentleman, can hardly be said to be fit to be so.
It is ugly, and straight, and small. There is a garden attached
to the house, half in front of it and half behind ; but this garden,
like the rest of the parish, is by no means ornamental, though
sufficiently useful. It produces cabbages, but no trees ;
potatoes of, I believe, an excellent description, but hardly any
flowers, and nothing worthy of the name of a shrub. Indeed
the whole parish of Hogglestock should have been in the
adjoining county, which is by no means so attractive as
Barsetshire ^ — a fact well known to those few of my readers who
are well acquainted with their own country.
Mr. Crawley, whose name has been mentioned in these
pages, was the incumbent of Hogglestock. On what principle
the remuneration of our parish clergymen was settled when the
original settlement was made, no deepest, keenest lover of
middle-aged ecclesiastical black-letter learning can, I take
it, now say. That the priests were to be paid from tithes
of the parish produce, out of which tithes certain other
good things were to be bought and paid for, such as church
repairs and education, of so much the most of us have an
inkling. That a rector, being a big sort of parson, owned the
tithes of his parish in full, — or at any rate that part of them
intended for the clergyman, — and that a vicar was somebody's
deputy, and therefore entitled only to little tithes, as being a
little body : of so much w^e that are simple in such matters have
a general idea. But one cannot conceive that even in this
way any approximation could have been made, even in those
old mediaeval days, towards a fair proportioning of the pay to
the work. At any rate, it is clear enough that there is no such
approximation now. And what a screech w^ould there
not be among the clergy of the Church, even in these reforming
days, if any over-bold reformer were to suggest that such an
approximation should be attempted? Let those who know
clergymen, and like them, and have lived with them, only fancy
it ! Clergymen to be paid, not according to the temporalities
of any living which they may have acquired, either by merit or
favour, but in accordance with the work to be donel O
Doddington ! and O Stanhope« think of thiSj if an idea
138 Framley Parsonage
sacrilegious can find entrance into your warm ecclesiastfcal
bosoms ! Ecclesiastical work to be bought and paid for
according to its quantity and quality !
But, nevertheless, one may prophesy that we Englishmen must
come to this, disagreeable as the idea undoubtedly is. Most
pleasant-minded churchmen feel, I think, on this subject pretty
much in the same way. Our present arrangement of parochial
incomes is beloved as being time-honoured, gentlemanlike,
English, and picturesque. We would fain adhere to it closely as
long as we can, but we know that we do so by the force of our
prejudices, and not by that of our judgment. A time-honoured,
gentlemanlike, English, picturesque arrangement is so far very
delightful. But are there not other attributes very desirable —
nay, absolutely necessary — in respect to which this time-
honoured, picturesque arrangement is so very deficient ?
How pleasant it was, too, that one bishop should be getting
fifteen thousand a year, and another with an equal cure of
parsons only four ! That a certain prelate could get twenty
thousand one year and his successor in the same diocese only
five the next ! There was something in it pleasant, and
picturesque; it was an arrangement endowed with feudal
charms, and the change which they have made was distasteful
to many of us, A bishop with a regular salary, and no appanage
of land and land-bai lifts, is only half a bishop. Let any man
prove to mp the contrary ever so thoroughly — let me prove it
to my own self ever so often — my heart in this matter is not
there Ijy a whit altered. One liked to know that there was a
dean or two who got his three thousand a year, and that old
Dr. Purple held four stalls, one of which was golden, and the
other three silver-gilt ! Such knowledge was always pleasant
to me ! A golden stall ! How sweet is the sound thereof to
church loving ears! But bishops have been shorn of their
beauty, and deans are in their decadence. A utilitarian age
requires the fatness of the ecclesiastical land, in order that it
may be divided out into small portions of provender, on which
necessary working clergymen may live, — into portions so
infinitesimally small that working clergymen can hardly live.
And the full-blown rectors and vicars, with full-blown tithes —
with tithes when too full-blown for strict utilitarian principles
— will necessarily follow. Stanhope and Doddington must
bow their heads, with such compensation for temporal rights as
may be extracted, — but probably without such compensation
as may be desired. In other trades, professions, and lines of
life, men are paid according to their work. Let it be so in the
Mr. Crawley of Hogglestock 139
Church. Such will sooner or later be the edict of a utilitarian,
reforming, matter-of-fact House of Parliament.
I have a scheme of my own on the subject, which I will not
introduce here, seeing that neither men nor women would read
it. And with reference to this matter, I will only here further
explain that all these words have been brought about by the
fact, necessary to be here stated, that Mr. Crawley only
received one hundred and thirty pounds a year for performing
the whole parochial duty of the parish of Hogglestock. And
Hogglestock is a large parish. It includes two populous
villages, abounding in brick-makers, a race of men very trouble-
some to a zealous parson who won’t let men go rollicking to
the devil without interference. Hogglestock has full work for
two men ; and yet all the funds therein applicable to parson’s
work is this miserable stipend of one hundred and thirty
pounds a year. It is a stipend neither picturesque, nor time-
honoured, nor feudal, for Hogglestock takes rank only as a
perpetual curacy.
Mr. Crawley has been mentioned before as a clergyman of
whom Mr. Robarts said, that he almost thought it wrong to take
a walk out of his own parish. In so saying Mark Robarts of
course burlesqued his brother parson ; but there can be no
doubt that Mr. Crawley was a strict man, — a strict, stern,
unpleasant man, and one who feared God and his own con-
science. We must say a word or two of Mr. Crawley and
his concerns. He was now some forty years of age, but of
these he had not been in possession even of his present bene-
fice for more than four or five. The first ten years of his life
as a clergyman had been passed in performing the duties and
struggling through the life of a curate in a bleak, ugly, cold
parish on the northern coast of Cornwall. It had been a
weary life and a fearful struggle, made up of duties ill requited
and not always satisfactorily performed, of love and poverty, of
increasing cares, of sickness, debt, and death. For Mr. Crawley
had married almost as soon as he was ordained, and children
had been born to him in that chill, comfortless Cornish cottage,
lie had married a lady well educated and softly nurtured, but
not dowered with worldly wealth. They two had gone forth
determined to fight bravely together ; to disregard the world
and the world’s ways, looking only to God and to each other
for their comfort. They would give up ideas of gentle living,
of soft raiment, and delicate feeding. Others, — those that work
with their hands, even the bettermost of such workers — could
live, in decency and health upon even such provision as he
142 Framley Parsonage
And then, too, pecuniary assistance was forthcoming — in those
earlier years not in great amount, for this friend was not then
among the rich ones of the earth — but in amount sufficient for
that moderate hearth, if only its acceptance could have been
managed. But in that matter there were difficulties without
end. Of absolute money tenders Mr. Crawley would accept
none. But a bill here and there was paid, the wife assisting ;
and shoes came for Kate — till Kate was placed beyond the
need of shoes ; and cloth for Harry and Frank found its way
surreptitiously in beneath the cover of that wife’s solitary trunk
— cloth with which those lean fingers worked garments for the
two boys, to be worn — such was God’s will — only by the
one.
Such were Mr. and Mrs. Crawley in their Cornish curacy,
and during their severest struggles. To one who thinks that
a fair day’s work is worth a fair day’s wages, it seems hard
enough that a man should work so hard and receive so little.
There will be those who think that the fault was all his own in
marrying so young. But still there remains that question. Is
not a fair day’s work worth a fair day’s wages. This man did
work hard — at a task perhaps the hardest of any that a man
may do ; and for ten years he earned some seventy pounds a
year. Will any one say that he received fair wages for his fair
work, let him be married or single? And yet there are so
many who would fain pay their clergy, if they only knew how
to apply their money ! But that is a long subject, as Mr.
Robarts had told Miss Dunstable. Such was Mr. Crawley in
his Cornish curacy.
CHAPTER XV
LADY LUFTON’s AMBASSADOR
And then, in the days which followed, that friend of Mr.
Crawley’s, whose name, by-the-bye, is yet to be mentioned,
received quick and great promotion. Mr. Arabin by name he
was then ; Dr. Arabin afterwards, when that quick and great
promotion reached its climax. He had been simply a Fellow
of Lazarus in those former years. Then he became Vicar of
St. Ewold’s in East Barsetshire, and had not yet got himself
settled there when he married the Widow Bold, a widow with
belongings in land and funded money, and with but one small
baby as an incumbrance. Nor had he even yet married her,
had only engaged himself so to do, when they made him Dean
Lady Lufton’s Ambassador 143
of Barchester — all which may be read in the diocesan and
county chronicles. And now that he was wealthy, the new
dean did contrive to pay the debts of his poor friend, some
lawyer of Camelford assisting him. It was but a paltry schedule
after all, amounting in the total to something not much above
a hundred pounds. And then, in the course of eighteen months,
this poor piece of preferment fell in the dean's -vay, this in-
cumbency o: Hogglestock with its stipend reaching one hundred
and thirty pounds a year. Even that was worth double the
Cornish curacy, and there was, moreover, a house attached to
it. Poor Mrs. Crawley, when she heard of it, thought that their
struggles of poverty were now well nigh over. What might not
be done with a hundred and thirty pounds by people who had
lived for ten years on seventy ?
And so they moved away out of that cold, bleak country,
carrying with thjm their humble household gods, and settled
themselves in another country, cold and bleak also, but
less terribly so than the former. They settled themselves,
and again began their struggles against man's hardness and
the devil’s zeal. I have said that Mr. Crawley was a stern,
unpleasant man ; and it certainly was so. The man must be
made of very sterling stuff, whom continued and undeserved
misfortune does not make unpleasant. This man had so far
succumbed to grief, that it had left upon him its marks,
palpable and not to be effaced. He cared little for society,
judging men to be doing evil who did care for it. He knew
as a fact, and believed with all his heart, that these sorrows
had come to him from the hand of God, and that they would
work for his weal in the long run ; but not the less did they
make him morose, silent, and dogged. He had always at
his heart a feeling that he and his had been ill-used, and too
often solaced himself, at the devil's bidding, with the convic-
tion that eternity would make equal that which life in this
world had made so unecjual ; the last bait that with w'hich the
devil angles after those who are struggling to elude his rod
and line.
The Framlcy property did not run into the parish of
Hogglestock ; but nevertheless Lady Lufton did what she
could in the way of kindness to these new comers. Providence
had hot supplied Hogglestock with a Lady Lufton, or with
any substitute in the shape of lord or lady, squire or squiress.
The Hogglestock farmers, male and female, were a rude,
rough set, not bordering in their social rank on the farmer
gentle : and Lady Lufton, knowing this, and hearing some-
144 Framley Parsonage
thing of these Crawleys from Mrs. Arabia the dean's wife,
trimmed her lamps, so that they should slied a wider light, and
pour forth some of their influence on that forlorn household.
And as regards Mrs. Crawley, Lady Lufton by no means found
that her work and good-will were thrown away. Mrs. Crawley
accepted her kindness with thankfulness, and returned to
some of the softnesses of life under her hand. As for dining
at Framley Court, that was out of the question. Mr. Crawley,
she knew, would not hear of it, even if other things were fitting
and appliances were at command. Indeed Mrs. Crawley at
once said that she felt herself unfit to go through such a
ceremony with anything like comfort. The dean, she said,
would talk of their going to stay at the deanery ; but she
thought it quite impossible that either of them should endure
even that. But, all the same, I^dy Lufton was a comfort to
her ; and the poor woman felt that it was well to have a lady
near her in case of need.
The task was much harder with Mr. Crawley, but even with
him it was not altogether unsuccessful. Lady Lufton talked
to him of his parish and of her own ; made Mark Robarts go to
him, and by degrees did something towards civilizing him.
Between him and Robarts too there grew up an intimacy
rather than a friendship. Robarts would submit to his
opinion on matters of ecclesiastical and even theological law,
would listen to him with patience, would agree with him
where he could, and differ from him mildly when he could
not. For Robarts was a man who made himself pleasant
to all men. And thus, under Lady Lufton’s wing, there
grew up a connection between Framley and Hogglestock,
in which Mrs. Robarts also assisted. And now that Lady
Lufton was looking about her, to see how she might best
bring proper clerical influence to bear upon her own recreant
fox-hunting parson, it occurred to her lliat she might use
Mr. Crawley in the matter. Mr. Crawley would certainly
be on her side as far as opinion went, and would have
no fear as to expressing his opinion to his brother clergy-
man. So she sent for Mr. Crawley. In appearance he
was the very opposite to Mark Robarts. He was a lean,
slim, meagre man, with shoulders slightly curved, and pale, lank,
long locks of ragged hair ; his forehead was high, but his face
was narrow ; his small grey eyes were deeply sunken in his
head, his nose was well-formed, his lips thin, and his mouth
expressive. Nobody could look at him without seeing that
there was a purpose and a meaning in his countenance. He
Lady Lufton’s Ambassador 145
always wore, in summer and winter, a long dusky grey coat,
which buttoned close up to his neck and descended almost
to his heels. He was full six feet high, but being so slight
in build, he looked as though he were taller. He came at
once at liady Lufton\s bidding, putting himself into the gig
beside the servant, to whom he spoke no single word during
the journey. And the man, looking into his face, was struck
with taciturnity. Now Mark Robarts would have talked
with him the whole way from Hogglestock to Framley Court ;
discoursing partly as to horses and land, but partly also as
to higher things. And then Lady Lufton opened her mind
and told her griefs to Mr. Crawley, urging, however, through
the whole length of her narrative, that Mr. Robarts was an
excellent parish clergyman, — “just such a clergyman in his
church as I would wish him to be,” she explained, with the
view of saving herself from an expression of any of
Mr. Oawley*s special ideas as to church teaching, and of
confining him to the o?>e subject-matter in hand ; “biic he got
this living so young, Mr. Crawlev, that he is hardly quite as
steady as I could wish him to l)c. It has been as much my
fault as his own in placing him in such a position so early in life.”
“I think it has,” said Mr. Crawley, who might perhaps be
a little sore on such a subject.
“ Quite so, quite so,” continued her ladyship, swallowing
down with a gulp a certain sense of anger. “But that is done
now, and is pa.st cure. That Mr. Robarts will become a
credit to his yTofession, I do not doubt, for his heart is in the
right place and his sentiments are good; but J fear that at
present he is ^:uccllrnbing to temptation.”
“ 1 am told that he hunts two or three times a week.
Everybody round us is talking about it.”
“ No, Mr. Crawley ; not two or three times a week ; very
seldom above once, 1 think. And then I do believe he does
it more with the view of being with Lord Lufton than any-
thing else.”
“ I cannot see that that would make the matter better,” said
Mr. Crawley.
“ It would show that he was not strongly imbued with a
taste which 1 cannot but regard as vicious in a clergyman.”
“ It must be vicious in all men,” said Mr. Crawley. “ It is
in itself cruel, and leads to idleness and profligacy.” Again
I^ady Lufton made a gulp. She had called Mr. Crawley
thither to her aid, and felt that it would be inexpedient to
quarrel with him. But she did not like to be told that her
146 Fra'mley Parsonage
son’s amusen^ent was idle and profligate. She had always
regarded hunting as a proper pursuit for a country gentleman.
It was, indeed, in her eyes one of the peculiar institutions of
country life in England, and it may be almost said that she
looked upon the Ilarsetshire hunt as something sacred. She
could not endure to hear that a fox was trapped, and allowed
her turkeys to be purloined without a groan. Such being the
case, she did not like being told that it was vicious, and had
by no means wished to consult Mr. Crawley on that matter.
But nevertheless she swallowed down her wrath.
“It is at any rate unbecoming in a clergyman,” she said ;
“ and as 1 know that Mr. Robarts places a high value on your
opinion, perhaps you will not object to advise him to dis-
continue it. He might possibly feel aggrieved were I to
interfere personally on such a question.”
“ 1 have no doubt he would,” said Mr. Crawley. “ It is not
within a woman’s province to give counsel to a clergyman on
such a subject, unless she be very near and very dear to him —
his wife, or mother, or sister.”
“As living in the same parish, you know, and being, per-
haps ” the leading person in it, and the one who naturally
rules the others. Those would have been the fitting words
for the expression of her ladyship’s ideas ; but she remem[)ered
herself, and did not use them. She had made up her mind
that, great as her influence ought to be, she was not th() proper
person to speak to Mr. Robarts as to his pernicious, unclerical
habits, and she w'ould not now depart from her resolve by
attempting to prove that she was the proper person.
“ Yes,” said Mr. Crawley, “ just so. All that would entitle
him to offer you his counsel if he thought that your mode of
life was such as to require it, but could by no means justify
you in addressing yourself to him.” This w^as very hard upon
Lady Lufton. She was endeavouring with all her woman’s
strength to do her best, and endeavouring so to do it that the
feelings of the sinner might be spared ; and yet the ghostly
comforter whom she had evoked to her aid, treated her as
though she were arrogant and overbearing. She acknowledged
the weakness of her own position with reference to her parish
clergyman by calling in the aid of Mr. Crawley ; and, under
such circumstances, he might, at any rate, have abstained from
throwing that weakness in her teeth.
“ Well, .sir ; I hope my mode of life may not require it ; but
that is not exactly to the point : what 1 wish to know is,
whether you will speak to Mr. Robarts ? ”
147
Lady Lufton’s Ambassador
“ Certainly I will,” said he.
“Then I shall be much obliged to you. But, Mr. Crawley,
pray — pray, remember this : I would not on any account wish
that you should be harsh with him. He is an excellent young
man, and ”
“ Lady Lufton, if I do this, I can only do it in my own way,
as best I may, using such words as God may give me at the
time. I hope that I am harsh to no man ; but it is
worse than useless, in all cases, to speak anything but the
truth ”
“Of course — of course.”
“If the cars be too delicate to hear the truth, the mind will
be too perverse to profit by it.” And then Mr. Crawley got up
to take his leave. But Lady Lufton insisted that he should go
with her to luncheon. Me hummed and ha^d and would fain
have refused, but on this s^ibject she was peremptory. It
might be that she was unfit to advise a clergyman as to
his duties, but in a matter of hos])itality she did know what
she was about. Mr. Crawley should not leave the house with-
out refreshment. As to this, she carried her point ; and Mr.
Crawley — when the matter before him was cold roast-beef and
hot potatoes, instead of the relative position of a parish priest
and his parishioner — became humble, submissive, and almost
timid. Lady Lufton recommended Madeira instead of Sherry,
and Mr. Crawley obeyed at once, and w^as, indeed, perfectly
unconscious of the difference. Then there was a basket of
seakale in the gig for Mrs. Crawley ; that he would have left
behind had he dared, but he did not dare. Not a word was
said to him as to the marmalade for the children which was
hidden under the seakale, Lady Lufton feeling well aware that
that would find its way to its proper destination without any
necessity for his co-operation. And then Mr. Crawley re-
turned home in the Framley Court gig.
Three or four days after this he walked over to Framley
parsonage. This he did on a Saturday, having learned that
the hounds never hunted on that day ; and he started early,
so that he might be sure to catch Mr. Kobarts before he went
out on his parish business. He was quite early enough to
attain this object, for when he reached the parsonnge door at
about half-past nine, the vicar, with his wife and sister, were
just sitting down to breakfast. “ Oh, Crawley,” said Robarts,
before the other had well spoken, “ you are a capital fellow ; ”
and then he got him into a chair, and Mrs. Robarts had
poured him out tea, and Lucy had surrendered to him a knife
148 Framley Parsonage
and plate, l^cfore he knew under what guise to excuse his
coming among them.
“ 1 hop«^ you will excuse this intrusion,” at last he muttered :
“ but I have a few words of business to which I will request
your aUention presently.”
“ Certainly,” said Roharts, conveying a broiled kidney on to
the plate before Mr. Crawley ; “ but there is no preparation for
business like a good breakfast Lucy, hand Mr. Crawley the
buttered toast Eggs, Fanny; where are the eggs?” And
then John, in livery, brought in the fresh eggs. “Now we
shall do. I always eat my eggs while they're hot, Crawley, and I
advise you to do the same.” To all this Mr. Crawley said
very little, and he was not at all at home under the circum-
stances. Perhaps a thought did pass across his l)iain, as to the
difference between the meal which he had left on his own table,
and that which he now saw before him ; and as to any cause
which might exist for such difference. But, if so, it was a very
fleeting thought, for he had far other matter now fully occupy-
ing his mind. And then the breakfast was over, and in a few
minutes the two clergymen found themselves together in the
parsonage study.
“ Mr. Robarts,” began the senior, when he had seated
himself uncomfortably on one of the ordinary chairs at the
farther side of the well-stored library table, while Mark was
sitting at his ease in his own arm-chair by the hie, “ 1 have
called upon you on an unpleasant business.” Mark's mind
immediately flew off to Mr. Sowerby's bill, but he could not
think it possible that Mr. Crawley could have had anything to
do with that.
“ But as a brother clerg>man, and as one who esteems you
much and wishes you well, I have thought myself bound to
take this matter in hand.”
“ What matter is it, Crawley ? ”
" Mr. Robarts, men say that your present mode of life is one
that is not befitting a soldier in Christ's array.”
“ Men say so ! what men ? ”
“The men around you, of your own neighbourhood ; those
who watch your life, and know all your doings ; those who look
to see you walking as a lamp to guide their feet, but find you
consorting with horse-jockeys and hunters, galloping after
hounds, and taking your place among the vainest of worldly
pleasure^seckers. Those who have a right to expect an
example of good living, and who think that they do not see it."
Mr. Crawley had gone at once to the root of the matter, and
Lady Lufton’s Ambassador 149
in; loing so had certainly made his own task so much the easier,
'rhere is nothing like going to the root of ihe matter at once
when one has on hand an unpleasant piece of business.
“ And have such men deputed you to come here ? ”
“No one has or could depute me. I have come to speak
my own mind, not that of any other. But I refer to what
those around you think and say, because it is to them that
your duties are due. You ow^e it to those around you to live
a godly, cleanly life ; — as you owe it also, in a much higher
way, to your Father who is in heaven. I now make bold to
ask you whether you are doing your best to lead such a life as
that ? ” And then he remained silent, waiting for an answer.
He was a singular man ; so humble and meek, so unutterably
inefificient and aw-kward in the ordinary intercourse of life, but
so bold and enterpri jing, almost eloquent, on the one subject
which was the work of his mind ! As he sat there, he looked
into his companion’s face from out his sunken grey eyes with a
gaze which made his victim quail. And then repeated his
words : “ 1 now make bold to ask you, Mr. Robarts, whether
you aie doing your best to lead such a life as may become a
parish clergyman among his parishioners ? ” And again he
paused for an answer.
“ There are but few of us,” said Mark, in a low tone, “ who
could safely answer that question in the affirmative.”
“ But are there many, think you, among us who would find
: the question so unansw^erable as yourself? And even were
there many, would you, young, enterprising, and talented as
you are, be content to be numbered among them ? Are you
satisfied to be a castaway after you have taken upon yourself
Christ’s armour ? If you will say so, I am mistaken in you,
and will go my way.” There w^as again a pause, and then he
went on. “ Speak to me, my brother, and open your heart, if
it be possible.” And rising from his chair, he walked across
the room, and laid his hand tenderly on Mark’s shoulder.
Mark had been sitting lounging in his chair, and had at first,
for a moment only, thought to brazen it out. But all idea of
brazening had now left him. He had raised himself from his
comfortable ease, and was leaning forward with his elbow on
the table ; but now, when he heard these words, he allowed
his head to sink upon his arms, and he buried his lace between
his hands.
“ It is a terrible falling off,” continued Crawley : “ terrible in
the fall, but doubly terrible through that difficulty of returning.
But it cannot be that it should content you to place yourself as
150 Framley Parsonage
one among those thoughtless sinners, for the crushing of whofi^
sin you have been placed here among them. You become a^
hunting parson, and ride with ahafipy mind among blasphemers
and mocking devils — you, whose aspirations were so high, who
have spoken so often and so well of the duties of a minister of
Christ ; you, who can argue in your pride as to the petty details
of your Church, as though the broad teachings of its great and
simple lessons were not enough for your energies ! It cannot
be that I have had a hypocrite beside me in all those eager
controversies 1 ”
“ Not a hypocrite — not a hypocrite,” said Mark, in a tone
which was almost reduced to sobbing.
“ But a castaway ! Is it so that I must call you ? No, Mr.
Robarts, not a castaway ; neither a hypocrite, nor a castaway ;
but one who in walking has stumbled in the dark and bruised
his feet among the stones. Henceforth let him take a lantern
in his hand, and look warily to his path, and walk cautiously
among the thorns and rocks — cautiously, but yet boldly, with
manly courage, but Christian meekness, as all men should walk
on their pilgrimage through this vale of tears.” And then,
without giving his companion time to stop him he hurried
out of the room, and from the house, and without again seeing
any others of the family, stalked back on his road to Hoggle-
stock, thus tramping fourteen miles through the deep mud in
performance of the mission on which he had been sent.
It was some hours before Mr. Robarts left his room. As
soon as he found that Crawley was really gone, and that he
should see him no more, he turned the lock of his door, and
sat himself down to think over his present life. At about
eleven his wife knocked, not knowing whether that other
strange clergyman were there or no, for none had seen his
departure. But Mark, answering cheerily, desired that he
might be left to his studies. Let us hope that his thoughts
and mental resolves were then of service to him.
CHAPTER XVI
MRS. PODGENS* BABY
The hunting season had now nearly passed away, and the
great ones of the Barsetshire world were thinking of the glories
of London. Of these glories Lady Lufton always thought with
much inquietude of mind. She would fain have remained
throughout the whole year at Framley Court, did not certain
grave considerations render such a course on her part improper
Mrs. Podgens’ Baby 151
in her own estimation. All the Lady Luftons of whom she
had heard, dowager and ante-dowager, had always had their
seasons in London, till old age had incapacitated them for
such doings — sometimes for clearly long after the arrival of
such period. And then she had an idea, perhaps not altogether
erroneous, that she annually imported back with her into the
country somewhat of the passing civilization of the times : —
may we not say an idea that certainly was not erroneous ? for
how otherwise is it that the forms of new caps and remodelled
shapes for women\s waists find their way down into agri-
cultural parts, and that the rural eye learns to appreciate grace
and beauty ? There are those who think that remodelled
waists and new caps had better be kept to the towns ; but such
people, if they would follow out their own argument, would
wish to see ploughbcys painted with ruddle and milkmaids
covered with ski ns. For these and other reasons Lady Lufton
always went to London in April, and stayed there till the
beginning of June. But for her this was usually a period of
penance. In London she was no very great personage. She
had never laid herself out for greatness of that sort, and did
not shine as a lady-patroness or state secretary in the female
cabinet of fashion. She was dull and listless, and without con-
genial pursuits in London, and spent her happiest moments in
reading accounts of what was being done at Framley, and in
writing ordeis for further local information of the same kind.
But on this occasion there was a matter of vital import to give
an interest of its own to her visit to town. Slie was to entertain
Griselda Grantly, and, as far as might be possible, to induce
her son to remain in Griselda's society. The plan of the cam-
paign was to be as follows : — Mrs. Grantly anri the archdeacon
were in the first place to go up to London for a month, taking
Griselda with them ; and then, when they returned to Plum-
stead, Griselda was to go to Lady Lufton. This arrangement
was not at all points agreeable to Lady Lufton, for she knew
that Mrs. Grantly did not turn her back on the Hartletop
people quite as cordially as she should do, considering the
terms of the Lufton-Grantly family treaty. But then Mrs,
Grantly might have alleged in excuse the slow manner in
which Lord Lufton proceeded in the making and declaring of
his love, and the absolute necessity which there is for two
strings to one's bow, when one string may be in any way doubt-
ful. Could it be possible that Mrs. Grantly had heard
anything of that unfortunate Platonic friendship with Lucy
Robarts ?
152 Framley Parsonage
There came a letter from Mrs. Grantly just about the end
of March, which added much to Lady Lufton’s uneasiness,
and made her more than ever anxious to be herself on the
scene of action, and to have Griselda in her own hands. After
some communications of mere ordinary importance with
reference to the London world in general, and the Lufton-
Grantly world in particular, « Mrs. Grantly wrote confidentially
about her daughter “ It would be useless to deny,” she said,
with a mother’s pride and a mother’s humility, “ that she is
very much admired. She is asked out a great deal more than
I can take her, and to houses to which I myself by no means
wish to go. I could not refuse her as to Lady Hartletop’s first
ball, for there will be nothing else this year like them ; and of
course when with you, dear Lady Lufion, that house will be
out of the question. So indeed would it be with me, were I
myself only concerned. The duke was there, of course, and
I really wonder Lady Hartletop should not be more discreet in
her own drawing-room when all the world is there. It is clear
to me that Lord Dumbello admires Griselda much more than
I could wish. She, dear girl, has such excellent sense that I
do not think it likely that her head should be turned by it ; but
with how many girls would not the admiration of such a man
be irresistible ? The marquis, you know, is very feeble, and I
am told that since this rage for building has come on, the
Lancashife property is over two hundred thousand a year ! I I
do not think that Lord Dumbello has said much to her.
Indeed it seems to me that he never does say much to any
one. But he always stands up to dance with her and 1 see
that he is uneasy and fidgety when she stands up with any other
partner whom he could care about. It w'as really embarrassing
to see him the other night at Miss Dunstable’s, when Griselda
was dancing with a certain friend of ours. But she did look
very well that evening, and I have seldom seen her more
animated ! ”
All this, and a great deal more of the same sort in the same
letter, tended to make Lady Lufton anxious to be in London.
It. was quite certain — there was no doubt of that, at any rate —
that Griselda would see no more of Lady Hartletop’s
meretricious grandeur when she had been transferred to I^dy
Lufton’s guardianship. And she, Lady Lufton, did wonder
that Mrs. Grantly should have taken her daughter to such a
house. All about Lady Hartletop was known to all the world.
It was known that it was almost the only house in London at
which the Duke of Omnium was constantly to be met. Lady
Mrs. Podgens’ Baby 153
Lufton herself would almost as soon think of taking a young
girl to Gatherum Castle; and on these accounts she did feel
rather angry with her friend Mrs. Grantly. But then perhaps
she did not sufliciently calculate that Mrs. Grantly’s letter had
been written purposely to produce such feelings — with the
express view of awakening her ladyship to the necessity of
action. Indeed, in such a matter as this, Mrs. Grantly was a
more able woman than Lady Lufton — more able to see her
way and to follow it out. The Lufton-Grantly alliance was in
her mind the best, seeing that she did not regard money as
everything. But failing that, the Hartletop-Grantly alliance
was not bad. Regarding it as a second string to her bow, she
thought that it was not at all bad. Lady Lufton’s reply was
very affectionate. She declared how happy she was to know
that Griselda wa. cii joying herself; she insinuated that Lord
Dumbcllo was known to the world as a fool, and his mother
as being not a bit better than she ought to be; and then
she added tliat circumstances would bring herself up to town
four days sooner than she had expected, and that she hoped
her dear Griselda would come to her at once. Lord Lufton,
she said, though he would not sleep in Bruton Street — Lady
Lufton lived in Jlruton Street — ^had promised to pass there as
much of his time as his parliamentary duties would permit.
O Lady Lufton ! Lady Lufton ! did it not occur to you, when
you wrote those last words, intending that they should have so
strong an effect on the mind of your correspondent, that you
were telling a tarradiddle? Was it not the case that you
had said to your son, in your own dear, kind, motherly way:
“Ludovic, wc shall see something of you in Bruton Street this
year, shall we not? Gri.selda Grantly will be with me, and we
must not let her be dull — must we?” And then had he not
answered, “Oh, of course, mother,” and sauntered out of the
room, not altogether graciously? Had he, or you, said a word
about his parliamentary duties? Not a w^ord ! O Lady Lufton !
have you nv)t now written a tarradiddle to your friend? In
these days we arc becoming very strict about truth with our
children; terribly strict occasionally, when we consider the
natural weakness of the moral courage at the ages of ten, twelve,
and fourteen. But I do not know that we are at all increasing
the measure of strictness with which we, grown-up people,
regulate our own truth and falsehood. Heaven forbid that I
should be thought to advocate falsehood in children; but an
untruth is more pardonable in them than in their parents.
Lady Lufton’s tarradiddle was of a nature that is usually
154 Framley Parsonage
considered excusable — at least with grown people ; but, never-
theless, she would have been nearer to perfection could she
have confined herself to the truth. Let us suppose that a boy
were to write home from school, saying that another boy had
promised to comeiand stay with him, that other having given no
such promise — what a very naughty boy would that first boy be
in the eyes of his pastors and masters 1
That little conversation between J.ord Lufton and his mother
— in which nothing was said about his lordship^s parliamentary
duties — took place on the evening before he started for London.
On that occasion he certainly was not in his best humour, nor
did he behave to his mother in his kindest manner. He had
then left the room when she began to talk about Miss (irantly ;
and once again in the course of the evening, when his mother, not
very jr.diciously, said a word or two about Griselda's beauty, he
had remarked that she was no conjuror, and would hardly set
the Thames on fire. “ If she were a conjuror ! ” said Lady
Lufton, rather piqued, “ I should not now be going to take her
out in London. I know many of those sort of girls whom you
call conjurors ; they can talk for ever, and always talk either
loudly or in a whisper. 1 don^t like them, and I am sure that
you do nut in your lieart.*^
“ Oh, as to liking them in my heart — that is being very
particular.”
“ Griselda Grantly is a lady, and as such I shall be happy to
have her with me in town. She is just the girl that Justinia
will like to have with her.”
“Exactly,” said Lord Lufton. “She will do exceedingly
well for Justinia.” Now this was not good-nalured on the jiart of
Lord Lufton ; and his mother felt it the more strongly, inasmuch
as it seemed to signify that he was setting his back up against
the Lufton-Grantly alliance. She had been pretty sure that he
would do so in the event of his suspecting that a plot was being
laid to catch him ; and now it almost appeared that he did
suspect such a plot. Why else that sarcasm as to Griselda
doing very well for his sister ?
And now we must go back and describe a little scene at
Framley, which will account for his lordship^s ill-humour and
suspicions, and explain how it came to pass that he so snubbed
his mother. This scene took place about ten days after the
evening on which Mrs. Robarts and Lucy were walking together
in the parsonage garden, and during those ten days Lucy had
not once allowed herself to be entrapped into any special
conversation with the young peer. She had dined at Framley
Mrs. Podgens’ Baby 155
Court during that interval, and had spent a second evening
there ; Lord Lufton had also been up at the parsonage on three
or four occasions, and had looked for her in her usual walks ;
but, nevertheless, they had never come together in their old
familiar way, since the day on which Lady Lufton had hinted
her fears to Mrs. Kobarts.
Lord Lufton had very much missed her. At first he had
not attribiued this change to a purposed scheme of action on
the part of any one ; nor, indeed, had he much thought about
il, although he had felt himself to be annoyed. But as the
period fixed for his departure grew near, it did occur to him as
very odd that he shouKl never hear Lucy^s voice unless when
she said a few words to his mother, or to her sister-in-law.
And then he made up his mind that he would speak to her
before he went, ai':l tl.at the mystery should be explained to
him. And he earned out his purpose, calling at the parsonage
on one spv^cial afternoon ; and it was on the evening of the
same day that his mother sang the praises of Griselda Grantly
so inopportunely. Robarts, he knew, was thmi absent from
home, and Mrs. Robarts was with his mother down at the house,
preparing lists of the poor people to be specially attended to in
Lady Lufton’s approaching absence. Taking advantage of this,
he walked boldly in through the parsonage garden ; asked the
gardener, with an indifferent voice, whether either of the ladies
were at home, and then caught poor Lucy exactly on the door-
step of the house.
“ Were you going in or out. Miss Robarts ?
“Well, I was going out,” said Lucy; and she began to
consider how best she might get quit of any prolonged en-
counter.
“ Oh, going out, were you ? I don’t know whether I may
offer to ”
“ Well, Lord Lufton, not exactly, seeing that I am about to
pay a visit to our near neighbour, Mrs. Podgens. Perhaps, you
have no particular call towards Mrs. Podgens’ just at present, or
to her new baby ? ”
“ And have you any very particular call that way ? ”
“ Yes, and esiiecially to Baby Podgens. Baby Podgens is a
real little duck — only Just two days old.” And Lucy, as she
spoke, progressed a step or two, as though she were determined
not to remain there talking on the doorstep. A slight cloud
came across his brow as he saw this, and made him resolve
that she should not gain her purpose. He was not going to be
foiled in that way by such a girl as Lucy Robarts. He had
156 Framley Parsonage
come there to speak to her, and speak to her he would. There
had been enough of intimacy between them to justify him in
demanding, at any rate, as much as that.
“ Miss Robarts,” he said, “ I am starting for London to-
morrow, and if I do not say good-bye to you now, I shall not
be able tc do so at all.’’
“ Good-bye, Lord Lufton,” she said, giving him her hand,
and smiling on him with her old genial, good-humoured, racy
smile. “ And mind you bring into parliament that law which
you promised me for defending my young chickens.”
He took her hand, but that was not all he wanted. “Surely
Mrs. Podgens and her baby can wait ten minutes. 1 shall not
see you again for months to come, and yet you seem to begrudge
me two words.”
“Not two hundred if they can be of any service to you,” said
she, walking cheerily back into the drawing-room ; “ only 1 did
not think it worth while to waste your time, as Fanny is not
here.” She was infinitely more collected, more master of her-
self than he was. Inwardly, she did tremble at the idea of wdiat
was coming, but outw^ardly she showed no agitation — none as
yet ; if only she could so possess herself as to refrain from doing
so, when she heard what he might have to say to her.
He hardly knew what it was for the saying of which he had
so resolutely come thither. He had by no means made up his
mind that he loved Lucy Robarts ; nor had he made up his
mind that, loving her, he w'ould, or that, loving her, he would
not, make her his wife. He had never used his mind in the
matter in any way, either for good or evil. He had learned to
like her and to think that she was very pretty. He had found
out that it was very pleasant to talk to her ; whereas, talking to
Griselda Grantly,\and, indeed, to some other young ladies of his
acquaintance, was often hard work. The half-hours which he
had spent with Lucy had always been satisfactory to him. He
had found himself to be more bright with her than with other
people, and more apt to discuss subjects worth discussing ; and
thus it had come about that he thoroughly liked Lucy Robarts.
As to whether his afTection was Platonic or anti-Platonic he had
never asked himself ; but he had spoken words to her, shortly
before that sudden cessation of their intimacy, which might
have been taken as anti-Platonic by any girl so disposed to
regard them. He had not thrown himself at her feet, and
declared himself to be devoured by a consuming passion ; but
he had touched her hand as lovers touch those of women whom
diey love ; he had had his confidences with her, talking to her
Mrs. Podgens’ Baby 157
of his own mother, of his sister, and of his friends ; and he had
called her his own dear friend Lucy. All this had been very
sweet to her, but very poisonous also. She had declared to
herself very frequently that her liking for this young nobleman
was as purely a feeling of mere friendship as was that of her
brother ; and she had professed to herself that she would give
the lie to the world’s cold sarcasms on such subjects. But she
had now acknowledged that the sarcasms of the world on that
matter, cold though they may be, are not the less true ; and
having so acknowledged, she had resolved that all close alliance
between herself and Lord Lufton must be at an end. She had
come to a conclusion, but he had come to none ; and in this
frame of mind he was now there with the object of reopening
that dangerous friendship which she had had the sense to close.
“And so you going to-morrow?” she said, as soon as
they were botli within the drawing-room.
“ Yes : I’m off by the early train to-morrow morning, and
Heaven knows when we may meet again.”
“Next winter, shall we not?”
“ Yes, for a day or two, I suppose. I do not know whether
I shall pass another winter here. Indeed, one can never say
where one will be.”
“ No, one can’t ; such as you, at least, cannot. I am not of
a migratory tribe myself.”
“ I wish you were.”
“ I’m not a bit obliged to you. Your nomade life does not
agree with young ladies.”
“ I think they are taking to it pretty freely, then. We have
unprotected young women all about the world.”
“ And great bores you find them, I suppose ? ”
“ No ; I like it. The more we can get out of old-
fashioned grooves the better I am pleased. 1 should be a
radical to-morrow — a regular man of the people — only I should
break my mother’s heart.”
“ Whatever you do. Lord Lufton, do not do that.”
“ That is why I have liked you so much,” he continued,
“ because you get out of the grooves.”
“ Do I?”
“ Yes ; and go along by yourself, guiding your own footsteps ;
not carried hither and thither, just as your grandmother’s old
tramway may chance to take you.”
“ Do you know I have a strong idea that my grandmother’s
old tramway will be the safest and the best after aU ? 1 have
not left it very far, and 1 certainly mean to go back to it.”
158 Framley Parsonage
“ That’s impossible ! An army of old women, with coils of
ropes made out of time-honoured prejudices, could not draw
you back.”
“ No, Lord Lufton, that is true. But one ” and then
she stopped herself. She could not tell him that one loving
mother, anxious for her only son, had sufficed to do it. She
could not explain to him that this departure from the estab
lished tramway had already broken her own rest, and turned
her [)eaceful happy life into a grievous battle.
“ I know that you are trying to go back,” he said. “ Do you
think that 1 have eyes and cannot see ? Come, Lucy, you and
I have been friends, and we must not part in this way. My
mother is a paragon among women. I say it in earnest ; — a
paragon among women : and her love for me is the perfection
of motherly love.”
“ It is, it is ; and I am so glad that you acknowledge it.”
“ I should be worse than a brute did I not do so ; but,
nevertheless, I cannot allow her to lead me in all things.
Were I to do so, 1 should cease to be a man.”
“ Where can you find any one who will counsel you so
truly ? ”
“ But, nevertheless, I must rule myself. I do not know
whether my suspicions may be perfectly just, but I fancy that
she has cieated this estrangement between you and me. Has
it not been so ? ”
“Certainly not by speaking to me,” said Lucy, blushing
ruby-red through every vein of her deep-tinted face. But
though she could not command her blood, her voice was still
under her control — her voice and her manner.
“But has she not done so? You, I know, will tell me
nothing but the truth.”
“ I will tell you nothing on this matter, Lord Lufton,
whether true or false. It is a subject on which it does not
concern me to speak.”
“ Ah I I understand,” he said ; and rising from his chair, he
stood against the chimney-piece with his back to the fire.
“ She cannot leave me alone to choose for myself, my friends,
and my own ; ” but he did not fill up the void.
“ But why tell me this. Lord Lufton ? ”
“ No ! I am not to choose my own friends, though they be
among the best and purest of God’s creatures. Lucy, I can-
not think that you have ceased to have a regard for me. That
you had a regard for me, I am sure.” She felt that it was
almost unmanly of him thus to seek her out, and hunt her
Mrs. Podgens’ Baby 159
down, and then throw upon her the whole weij^ht of the ex-
planation that his coming thither made necessary. But, never-
theless, the truth must be told, and with God's help she would
find strength for the telling of it.
“ Yes, Lord I^ufton, I had a regard for you — and have. By
that word you mean something more than the customary
feeling of acquaintance which may ordinarily prevail between a
gentleman and lady of different families, who have known
each other so short a time as we have done.”
** Yes, something much more,” said he with energy.
“Well, I will not define the much— something closer than
that?”
“Yes, and warmer, and dearer, and more worthy of two
human creatures who value each other's minds and hearts.”
“ Some such clcjscr regard 1 have felt for you — very foolishly.
Stop I You have made me speak, and do not interrupt me
now. Does not your conscience tell you that in doing so I
have unwisely deserted those wise old grandmother’s tramways
of which you spoke just now ? It has been pleasant to me to do
so. 1 have liked the feeling of independence with which I have
thought that I might indulge in an open friendship with such
as you are. And your rank, so different from my own, has
doubtless made this more attractive.”
“Nonsense ! ”
“ Ah ! but it has. I know it now. But what will the world
say of me as to such an alliance ? ”
“ The world ! ”
“ Yes, the world ! I am not such a philosopher as to disre-
gard it, though you may afford to do so. The world will say
that I, the parson’s sister, set my cap at the young lord, and
that the young lord had made a fool of me.”
“ The world shall say no such thing ! ” said Lord Lufton,
very imperiously.
“ Ah ! but it will. You can no more stop it, than King
Canute could the waters. Your mother has interfered wisely
to spare me from this ; and the only favour that I can ask you
is, that you will spare me also.” And then she got up, as
though slie intended at once to walk forth to her visit to Mrs.
Podgens’ baljy.
“ Stop, Lucy ! ” he said, putting himself betw^eeri her and the
door.
“ It must not be Lucy any longer, Lord L.ufton ; I was
madly foolish when I first allowed it.”
“■By heavens ! but it shall be Lucy — Lucy before all the
181
i6o Framley Parsonage
world. My Lucy, my own Lucy — my heart's best friend, and
chosen love. Lucy, there is my hand. How long you may
have had my heart it matters not to say now.” The game was
at her feet now, and no doubt she felt her triumph. Her
ready wit and speaking lip, not her beauty, had brought him
to her side ; and now he was forced to acknowledge that her
power over him had been supreme. Sooner than leave her he
would risk all. She did feel her triumph; but there was
nothing in her face to tell him that she did so. As to what
she would now do she did not for a moment doubt. He had
been precipitated into the declaration he had made not by his
love, but by his embarrassment. She had thrown in his teeth
the injury which he had done her, and he had then been
moved by his generosity to repair that injury by the noblest
sacrifice which he could make. But Lucy Robarts was not
the girl to accept a sacrifice. He had stepped forward as
though he were going to clasp her round the waist, but she
receded, and got beyond the reach of his hand. “ Lord
Lufton ! ” she said, “ when you are more cool you will know
that this is wrong. The best thing for both of us now is to
part.”
“ Not the best thing, but the very worst, till we perfectly
understand each other.”
“Then perfectly understand me, that I cannot be your
wife.”
“ Lucy ! do you mean that you cannot learn to love me ? ”
“ I mean that I shall not try. Do not persevere in this, or
you will have to hate yourself for your own folly.”
“ But I will persevere till you accept my love, or say with
your hand on your heart that you cannot and will not love
me.”
“ Then I must beg you to let me go,” and having so said,
she paused while he walked once or twice hurriedly up and
down the room. “ And Lord Lufton,” she continued, “ if you
will leave me now, the words that you have spoken shall be as
though they had never been uttered.”
“I care not who knows they have been uttered. The
sooner that they are known to all the world the better I shall
be pleased, unless indeed ”
“ Think of your mother, Lord Lufton.”
“ What can I do better than give her as a daughter the best
and sweetest girl I have ever met ? When my mother really
knows you, she will love you as I do, Lucy, say one word to
me of comfort.”
Mrs. Proudie’s Conversazione i6i
“I will say no word to you that shall injure your future
comfort. It is impossible that I should be your wife.”
** Do you mean that you cannot love nie ? ”
“ You have no right to press me any further,” she said ; and
sat down upon the sofa, with an angry frown upon her fore-
head.
“ By heavens,” he said, “ I will take no such answer from
you till you put your hand upon your heart, and say that you
cannot love me.”
“ Oh, why should you press me so, Lord Lufton ? ”
“ Why, because my happiness depends upon it ; because it
behoves me to know the very truth. It has come to this, that
I love you with my whole heart, and I must know how your
heart stands towards me.” She had now again risen from the
sofa, and was looKing steadily in his face.
“ Lord Lufton,” she said, “ I cannot love you,” and as she
spoke she did put her hand, as he had desired, upon her
heart.
“ Then God help me ! for I am wretched. Good-bye,
Lucy,” and he stretched out his hand to her.
“ Good-bye, my lord. Do not be angry with me.”
“ No, no, no ! ” and without further speech he left the room
and the house and hurried home. It was hardly surprising
that he should that evening tell his mother that Griselda
Grantly would be a companion sufficiently good for his sister.
He wanted no such companion.
And when he was well gone — absolutely out of sight from
the window — Lucy walked steadily up to her room, locked the
door, and then threw herself on the bed. Why — oh ! why
had she told such a falsehood ? Could anything justify her in
a lie ? was it not a lie — knowing as she did that she loved him
with all her loving heart? But, then, his mother! and the
sneers of the world, which would have declared that she had
set her trap, and caught’ the foolish young lord ! Her pride
would not have submitted to that. Strong as her love was,
yet her pride was, perhaps, stronger — stronger at any rate
during that interview. But how was she to forgive herself the
falsehood she had told ?
CHAPTER XVII
MRS. proudie’s conversazione
It was grievous to think of the mischief and danger into
which Griselda Grantly was brought by the worldliness of her
i 62 Framley Parsonage
mother in those few weeks previous to Lady Lufton*s arrival
in town — very grievous, at least, to her ladyship, as from time
to lime she heard of what was done in London. Lady
Hartletop*s was not the only objectionable house at which
Griselda was allowed to reap fresh fashionable laurels. It had
been stated openly in the Morning Post that that young lady
had been the most admired among the beautiful at one of
Miss Dunstable's celebrated soirkes, and then she was heard
of as gracing the drawing-room at Mrs. Proudie's conver-
sazione.
Of Miss Dunstable herself Lady Lufton was not able openly
to allege any evil. She was acquainted, J-ady Lufton knew,
with very many people of the right sort, and was the dear
friend of Lady Lufton's highly conservative and not very
distant neighbours, the Greshams. Put then she was also
acquainted with so many people of the bad sort. Indeed, she
was intimate with everybody, from the Duke of Omnium to
old Dowager Lady Goodygaffer, who had represented all the
cardinal virtues for the last quarter of a century. She smiled
with ecjual sweetness on treacle and on brimstone ; was quite
at home at Exeter Hall, having been consulted — so the world
said, probably not with exact truth — as to the selection of
more than one disagreeably Low Church bishop ; and was not
less frequent in her attendance at the ecclesiastical doings cf
a certain terrible prelate in the Midland counties, who was
supposed to favour stoles and vespers, and to have no proper
Protestant hatred for auricular confession and fish on Fridays.
Lady Lufton, who was very staunch, did not like this, and
would say of Miss Dunstable that it was impossible to serve
both God and Mammon. But Mrs. Proud ie was much more
objectionable to her. Seeing how sharp was the feud between
the Proudies and the Grantlys down in Barsetshire, how abso-
lutely unable they had always been to carry a decent face
towards each other in church matters, how they headed two
parties in the diocese, which were, when brought together, as
oil and vinegar, in which battles the whole Lufton influence
had always been brought to bear on the Grantly side ; — seeing
all this, 1 say, Lady Lufton was surprised to hear that Griselda
had been taken to Mrs. Proudie's evening exhibition. “ Had
the archdeacon been consulted about it,” she said to herself,
“ this would never have happened.” But there she was wrong,
for in matters concerning his daughter’s introduction to the
world the archdeacon never interfered.
On the whole, 1 am inclined to think that Mrs. Granlly
Mrs. Proudie’s Conversazione 163
understood the world better than did Lady Lufton. In her
heart of hearts Mrs. Grantly hated Mrs. Proudie — that is, with
that sort of hatred one Christian lady allows herself to feel
towards another. Of course Mrs. Grantly forgave Mrs. Proudie
all her offences, and wished her well, and was at peace with
her, in the Christian sense of the word, as with all other
women. But under this forbearance and meekness, and
perhaps, we may say, wholly unconnected with it, there was
certainly a current of antagonistic feeling which, in the ordinary
unconsidered language of every day, men and women do call
hatred. This raged and was strong throughout the whole year
in Barsetshire, before the eyes of all mankind. But, neverthe-
less, Mrs. Grantly took Griselda to Mrs. Proudie’s evening
parties in London. In these days Mrs. Proudie considered
herself to be b}’ nv' means the least among bishops’ wive.s.
She had opened the season this year in a new house in
Gloucester Place, at which the reception rooms, at any rate,
were all that a lady bishop could desire. Here she had a
front drawing-room of very noble dimensions, a second drawing-
room rather noble also, though it had lost one of its back
corners awkwardly enough, apparently in a jostle with the
neighbouring house ; and then there w.is a third — shall we say
drawing-room, or closet? — in which Mrs. Proudie delighted to
be seen sitting, in order that the world might know that there
was a third room ; altogether a noble suite, as Mrs. Proudie
herself said in confidence to more than one clergyman’s wife
fiurn Barsetshire. “A noble suite, indeed, Mis. Proudie!”
the clergymen’s wives from Barsetshire would usually answer.
For some time Mrs. Proudie was much at a loss to know by
what sort of party or entertainment she would make herself
famous. Balls and suppers were of course out of the question.
She did not object to her daughters dancing all night at other
houses — at least, of late she had not objected, for the fashion-
able world required it, and the young ladies had perhaps a will
of their own — but dancing at her house — absolutely under the
shade of the bishop’s apron — would be a sin and a scandal.
And then as to suppers — of all modes in which one may
extend one’s hospitality to a large acquaintance, they are the
most costly. “ It is horrid to think that we should go out
among our friends for the mere sake of eating and drinking,”
Mrs. Proudie would say to the clergymen’s wives from Barset-
shire. “ It shows such a sensual propensity.”
“ Indeed it does, Mrs. Proudie ; and is so vulgar too ! ”
tho.se ladies would reply. But the elder among them would
164 Framley Parsonage
remember with regret, the unsparing, open-handed hospitality
of Barchester palace in the good old days of Bishop Grantly —
God rest his soul ! One old vicar^s wife there was whose
answer had not been so courteous —
“When we are hungry, Mrs. Proudie,” she had said, “we
do all have sensual propensities.”
“It would be much better, Mrs. Athill, if the world would
provide for all that at home,” Mrs. Proudie had rapidly
replied ; with which opinion I must here profess that I cannot
by any means bring myself to coincide. But a con versazione
would give play to no sensual propensity, nor occasion that
intolerable expense which the gratification of sensual pro-
pensities too often produces. Mrs. Proudie felt that the word
was not all that she could have desired. It was a little faded
by old use and present oblivion, and seemed to address itself
to that portion of the London world that is considered blue,
rather than fashionable. But, nevertheless, there was a
spirituality about it which suited her, and one may also say an
economy. And then as regarded fashion, it might perhaps not
be beyond the power of a Mrs. Proudie to regild the word with
a newly burnished gilding. Some leading person must produce
fashion at first hand, and why not Mrs. Proudie ?
Her plan was to set the people by the ears talking, if talk
they would, or to induce them to show themselves there inert
if no more could be got from them. To accommodate with
chairs and sofas as many as the furniture of her noble suite of
rooms would allow, especially with the two chairs and padded
bench against the wall in the back closet — the small inner
drawing-room, as she would call it to the clergymen's wives
from Barsetshire — and to let the others stand about upright, or
“group themselves,” as she described it. Then four times
during the two hours’ period of her conversazione tea and cake
were to be handed round on salvers. It is astonishing how far
a very little cake will go in this way, particularly if administered
tolerably early after dinner. The men can’t eat it, and the
women, having no plates and no table, are obliged to abstain.
Mrs. Jones knows that she cannot hold a piece of crumbly
cake in her hand till it be consumed without doing serious
injury to her best dress. When Mrs. Proudie, with her weekly
books before her, looked into the financial upshot of her con-
versazione, her conscience told her that she had done the right
thing. Going out to tea is not a bad thing, if one can contrive
to dine early, and then be allowed to sit round a big table with
a tea-urn in the middle. 1 would, however, suggest that break-
Mrs. Proudie’s Conversazione 165
fast cups should always be provided for the gentlemen. And
then with pleasant neighbours, — or more especially with a
pleasant neighbour, — the affair is not, according to my taste,
by any means the worst phase of society. But I do dislike
that handing round, unless it be of a subsidiary thimble-
ful when the business of the social intercourse has been
dinner.
And indeed this handing round has become a vulgar and an
intolerable nuisance among us second-class gentry with our
eight hundred a year — there or thereabouts ; — doubly in-
tolerable as being destructive of our natural comforts, and a
wretchedly vulgar aping of men with large incomes. The
Duke of Omnium and Lady Hartletop are undoubtedly wise
to have everything handed round. Friends of mine who
occasionally dine such houses tell me that they get their
wine quite as quickly as they can drink it, that their mutton is
brought to them without delay, and that the potato bearer
follows quick upon the heels of carnifer. Nothing can be
more comfortable, and we may no doubt acknowledge that
these first-class grandees do understand their material comforts.
But we of the eight hundred can no more come up to them in
this than we can in their opera-boxes and equipages. May I
not say that the usual tether of this class, in the way of
carnifers, cup-bearers, and the rest, does not reach beyond
neat-handed Phyllis and the greengrocer ? and that Phyllis,
neat-handed as she probably is, and the greengrocer, though
he be ever so active, cannot administer a dinner to twelve
people who are prohibited by a Medo-Persian law from all self-
administration whatever ? And may I not further say that the
lamentable consequence to us eight hundreders dining out
among each other is this, that we too often get no dinner at
all. Phyllis, with the potatoes, cannot reach us till our
mutton is devoured, or in a lukewarm state past our power of
managing ; and Ganymede, the greengrocer, though we admire
the skill of his necktie and the whiteness of his unexceptionable
gloves, fails to keep us going in sherry. Seeing a lady the
other day in this strait, left without a small modicum of
stimulus which was no doubt necessary for her good digestion,
1 ventured to ask her to drink wine with me. But when I
bowed my head at her, she looked at me with all her eyes,
struck with amazement. Had I suggested that she should join
me in a wild Indian war-dance, with nothing on but my paint,
her face could not have shown greater astonishment. And yet
1 should have thought she might have remembered the days
1 66 Framley Parsonage
w.":en Christian men and women used to drink wine with each
other. God be with the good old days when I could hobnob
with my friend over the table as often as I was inclined to lift
my glass to my lips, and make a long arm for a hot potato
whenever the exigencies of my plate required it.
I think it may be laid down as a rule in affairs of hospitality,
tbat whatever luxury or grandeur we introduce at our tables
when guests are with us, should be introduced for the advantage
of the guest and not for our own. If, for instance, our dinner
be served in a manner different from that usual to us, it should
be so served in order that our friends may with more satisfac-
tion eat our repast than our everyday practice would produce
on them. But the change should by no means be made to
their material detriment in order that our fashion may be
acknowledged. Again, if I decorate my sideboard and table,
wishing that the eyes of my visitors may rest on that which is
elegant and pleasant to the sight, I act in that matter with a
becoming sense of hospitality ; but if my object be to kill
Mrs. Jones with envy at the sight of all my silver trinkets, I
am a very mean-spirited fellow. This, in a broad way, will be
acknowledged ; but if we would bear in mind the same idea at
all times, — on occasions when the way perhaps may not be so
broad, when more thinking may be required to ascertain what
is true hospitality, — I think we of the eight hundred would
make a greater advance towards really entertaining our own
friends than by any rearrangement of the actual meats and
dishes which we set before them.
Knowing as we do, that the terms of the Lufton-Grantly
alliance had been so solemnly ratified between the two mothers,
it is perhaps hardly open to us to suppose that Mrs. Grantly
was induced to take her daughter to Mrs. Proud ie’s by any
knowledge which she may have acquired that Lord Dumbello
had promised to grace the bishop's assembly. It is certainly
the fact that high contracting parties do sometimes allow
themselves a latitude which would be considered dishonest
by contractors of a lower sort ; and it may be possible that the
archdeacon's wife did think of that second string with which
her bow was furnished. Be that as it may. Lord Dumbello
was at M rs. Proiidie’s, and it did so come to pass that Griselda
was seated at the corner of a sofa close to which was a vacant
space in which his lordship could — “group himself.” They
had not been long there before Lord Dumbello did group
himself. “Tine day," he said, coming up and occupying the
vacant position by Miss Grantly's elbow.
Mrs. Proudie’s Conversazione 167
“ We were driving to-day, and we thought it rather cold,”
said Griselda.
“ Deuced cold,” said Lord Dumbello, and then he adjusted
his white cravat and touched up his whiskers. Having got so
far, he did not proceed to any other immediate conversational
efforts ; nor did Griselda. But he grouped himself again as
became a marquis, and gave very intense satisfaction to Mrs.
Proudie.
“ This is so kind of you, Lord Dumbello,” said that lady,
coming up to him and shaking his hand warmly ; “ so very
kind of you to come to my poor little tea-party.”
“ Uncommonly pleasant, I call it,” said his lordship. “ I
like this sort of thing — no trouble, you know.”
“ No ; that is the charm of it : isnH it ? no trouble, or fuss,
or parade. That*s what I always say. According to my
ideas, society cotisists in giving people facility for an inter-
change of thoughts — what we call conversation.”
“Aw, yes, exactly.”
“ Not in eating and drinking together — eh, Lord Dumbello ?
And yet the practice of our lives would seem to show that the
indulgence of those animal propensities can alone suffice to
bring people together. The world in this has surely made a
great mistake.”
“ I like a good dinner all the same,” said Lord Dumbello.
“ Oh, yes, of course — of course. I am by no means one of
those who would pretend to preach that our tastes have not
been given to us for our enjoyment. Why should things be
nice if we are not to like them ?”
“ A man who can really give a good dinner has learned
a great deal,” said Lord Dumbello, with unusual animation.
“ An immense deal. It is quite an art in itself : and one
which I, at any late, by no means despise. But we cannot
always be eating — can we ? ”
“ No,” said Lord Dumbello, “ not always.” And he looked
as though he lamented that his powers should be so circum-
scribed. And then Mrs. Proudie passed on to Mrs. Grantly.
The two ladies were quite friendly in London ; though down
in their own neiglibourhood they waged a war so internecine
in its nature. But nevertheless Mrs. Proudie’s manner might
have' showed to a very close observer that she knew the
difference between a bishop and an archdeacon. “ I am so
delighted to see you,” said she. “ No, don’t mind moving; I
won’t sit down just at present. But why didn’t the archdeacon
come ? ”
i68 Framley Parsonage
“ It was quite impossible ; it was indeed,” said Mrs. Grantly.
** The archdeacon never has a moment in London that he can
call his own.”
“ You don’t stay up very long, I believe.”
“ A good deal longer than we either of us like, I can assure
you. London life is a perfect nuisance to me.”
” But people in a certain position must go through with it,
you know,” said Mrs. Proudie. ” The bishop, for instance,
must attend the House.”
Must he ? ” asked Mrs. Grantly, as though she were not at
all well informed with reference to this branch of a bishop’s
business. ” 1 am very glad that archdeacons are under no
such liability.”
“ Oh, no ; there’s nothing of that sort,” said Mrs. Proudie,
very seriously. “ But how uncommonly well Miss Grantly is
looking ! I do hear that she has quite been admired.” This
phrase certainly was a little hard for the mother to bear. All
the world had acknowledged, so Mrs. Grantly had taught her-
self to believe, that Griselda was undoubtedly the beauty of the
season. Marquises and lords were already contending for her
smiles, and paragraphs had been written in newspapers as
to her profile. It was too hard to be told, after that, that her
daughter had been “quite admired.” Such a phrase might suit
a pretty little red-cheeked milkmaid of a girl.
“ She cannot, of course, come near your girls in that respect,”
said Mrs. Grantly, very quietly. Now the Miss Proudies had
not elicited from the fashionable world any very loud encomiums
on their beauty. Their mother felt the taunt in its fullest force,
but she would not essay to do battle on the present arena. She
jotted down the item in her mind, and kept it over for Bar-
chester and the chapter. Such debts as those she usually paid
on some day, if the means of doing so were at all within her
power. “ But there is Miss Dunstable, I declare,” she said,
seeing that that lady had entered the room ; and away went
Mrs. Proudie to welcome her distinguished guest.
“And so this is a conversazione, is it?” said that lady, speak-
ing, as usual, not in a suppressed voice. “ Well, I declare, it’s
very nice. It means conversation, don’t it, Mrs. Proudie ? ”
“ Ha, ha, ha 1 Miss Dunstable, there is nobody like you, I
declare.”
“ Well, but don’t it ? and tea and cake ? and then, when
we're tired‘of talking, we go away, — isn't that it ? "
“ But you must not be tired for these three hours yet."
“ Oh, I am never tired of talking ; all the world knows that.
Mrs. Proudie’s Conversazione 169
How do, bishop? A very nice sort of thing this conversazione,
isn’t it now?” The bishop rubbed his hands together and
smiled, and said that he thought it was rather nice.
“Mrs. Proudie is so fortunate in all her little arrangements,’*
said Miss Dunstable.
“Yes, yes,” said the bishop. “I think she is happy in these
matters. I do flatter myself that she is so. Of course. Miss
Dunstable, you are accustomed to things on a much grander
scale.”
“I! Lord bless you, no! Nobody hates grandeur so much
as I do. Of course I must do as I am told. I must live in a
big house, and have three footmen six feet high. I must have
a coachman with a top-heavy wig, and horses so big that they
frighten me. If I did not, I should be made out a lunatic and
declared unable to manage ray own affairs. Put as for grandeur,
I hate it. I certainly think that I shall have some of these
conversaziones. I wonder whether Mrs. Proudie will come and
put me up to a wrinkle or two.” The bishop again rubbed his
hands, and said that he was lire she would. He never felt
quite at his ease with Miss Dunstable, as he rarely could
ascertain whether or no she was earnest in what she was saying.
So he trotted off, muttering some excuse as he went, and Miss
Dunstable chuckled with an inward chuckle at his too evident
bewilderment. Miss Dunstable was by nature kind, generous,
and open-hearted; but she was living now very much with
people on whom kindness, generosity, and open-hearted ness
were thrown away. She was clever also, and could be sarcastic;
and she found that those qualities told better in the world
around her than generosity and an open heart. And so she
went on from month to month, and year to year, not pro-
gressing in a good spirit as she might have done, but still
carrying within her bosom a warm affection for those she
could really love. And she knew that she was hardly living
as she should live, — that the wealth wdiich she affected to
despise was eating into the soundness of her character, not by
its splendour, but by the style of life which it had seemed to
produce as a necessity. She knew that she was gradually
becoming irreverent, scornful, and prone to ridicule; but yet,
knowing this, and hating it, she hardly knew how to break
from it. She had seen so much of the blacker side of human
nature that blackness no longer startled her as it should do.
She had been the prize at which so many ruined spendthrifts
had aimed, so many pirates had endeavoured to run her down
while sailing in the open waters of life, that she had ceased to
170 Framley Parsonage
regard such attempts on her money-bags as unmanly or over-
covetous. She was content to fight her own battle with her
own weapons, feeling secure in her own strength of purpose and
strength of wMt
Some few friends she had whom she really loved, — among
whom her inner self could come out and speak boldly what it had
to say with its own true voice. And the woman who thus so
spoke was very different from that Miss Dunstable whom Mrs.
Proudie courted, and the Duke of Omnium feted, and Mrs.
Harold Smith claimed as her bosom friend. If only she could
find among such one special companion on whom her heart
might rest, who would help her to bear the heavy burdens of
her world ! But where was she to find such a friend ? — she
with her keen wit, her untold money, and loud laughing voice.
Everything about her was calculated to attract those whom she
could not value, and to scare from her the sort of friend to
whom she would fain have linked her lot. And then she met
Mrs. Harold Smith, who had taken Mrs. Proudie^s noble suite
of rooms in her tour for the evening, and was devoting to them
a period of twenty minutes. “ And so I may congratulate you,”
Miss Dunstable said eagerly to her friend.
** No, in mercy’s name, do no such thing, or you may too
probably have to uncongratulate me again ; and that will be so
unpleasant.”
“ But £hey told me that Lord Brock had sent for him yester-
day.” Now at this period I^ord Brock was Prime Minister.
“So he did, and Harold w\is with him backwards and forwards
all the day. But he can’t shut his eyes and open his mouth,
and see what God will send him, as a wise and prudent man
should do. He is always for bargaining, and no Prime Minister
likes that.”
“ I would not be in his shoes if, after all, he has to come
home and say that the bargain is off.”
“ Ha, ha, ha ! Well, 1 should not take it very quietly. But
what can we poor women do, you know ? When it is settled,
my dear. I’ll send you a line at once.” And then Mrs. Harold
Smith finished her course round the rooms, and regained her
carriage within the twenty minutes.
“ Beautiful profile, has she not ? ” said Miss Dunstable,
somewhat later in the evening, to Mrs. Proudie. Of course,
the profile spoken of belonged to Miss Grantly.
“Yes, it is beautiful, certainly,” said Mrs. Proudie. “The
pity is that it means nothing.”
“ The gentlemen seem to think that it means a good deal.”
The New Minister’s Patronage 171
“ I am not sure of that. She has no conversation, you see ;
not a word. She has been sitting there with Lord Dumbello
at her elbow for the last hour, and yet she has hardly opened
her mouth three times.**
“ But, my dear Mrs. Proudie, who on earth could talk to
I.ord Dumbello ? ” Mrs. Proudie thought that her own daughter
Olivia would undoubtedly be able to do so, if only she could
get the opportunity. But, then, Olivia had so much conversa-
tion. And while the two ladies were yet looking at the youth-
ful pair. Lord Dumbello did speak again. “1 think I have
had enough of this now,” said he, addressing himself to Griselda.
“I suppose you have other engagemciUs,” said she.
“ Oh, yes; and I believe I shall go to J.ndy Clantclbrocks.”
And then he took his departure. No other word was spoken
that evening between him and Miss errantly beyond those
given in this chronicle, and yet the world declared that he and
that young lady had passed the evening in so close a flirtation
as to make the matter more than ordinarily particular; and Mrs.
Grantly, as she was driven horn ' to her lodgings, began to have
doubts in her mind whether it would be wise to discountenance
so great an alliance as that which the head of the great llartletop
family now seemed so desirous to establish. The prudent
mother had not yet spoken a word to her daughter on these
subjects, but it might soon become necessary to do so. It was
all very well for Lady Lufton to hurry up to town, but of what
service would that be, if Lord Lufton were not to be found in
Bruton Street?
CHAPTER XVIII
THE NEW minister’s PATRONAGE
At that time, just as Lady Lufton was about to leave
Framley for London, Mark Robarts received a pressing letter,
inviting him also to go up to the metropolis for a day or two —
not for pleasure, but on business. The letter was from his
indefatigable friend Sowerby. “ My dear Robarts,” the letter
ran : — “ 1 have just heard that poor little Burslem, the Barset-
shire prebendary, is dead. We must all die some day, you
know, — as you have told your parishioners from the Framley
pulpit more than once, no doubt. The stall must be filled
up, and why should not you have it as well as another ? It is
six hundred a year and a house. Little Burslern had nine,
but the good old times are gone. Whether the house is letable
or not under the present ecclesiastical regime, I do not know.
172 Framley Parsonage
It used to be so, for I remember Mrs. Wiggins, the tallow -
chandler^s widow, living in old Stanhope’s house.
“ Harold Smith has just joined the Government as Lord
Petty Bag, and could, I think, at the present moment, get this
for asking. He cannot well refuse me, and, if you say the
word, I will speak to him. You had better come up yourself ;
but say the word ‘ Yes,* or * No,* by the wires.
“ If you say ‘ Yes,* as of course you will, do not fail t-^ come
up. You will find me at the ‘Travellers,* or at the House.
The stall will just suit you, — will give you no trouble, improve
your position, and give some little assistance towards bed and
board, and rack and manger. — Yours ever faithfully,
N. SOWERBY.
“ Singularly enough, I hear that your brother is private
secretary to the new Lord Petty Bag. I am told that his chief
duty will consist in desiring the servants to call my sister’s
carriage. 1 have only seen Harold once since he accepted
office ; but my Lady Petty Bag says that he has certainly grown
an inch since that occurence.”
This was certainly very good-natured on the part of Mr.
Sowerby, and showed that he had a feeling within his bosom
that he owed something to his friend the parson for the injury
he had done him. And such was m truth the case. A more
reckless Jbeing than the member for West Barsetshire could
not exist. He was reckless for himself, and reckless for all
others with whom he might be concerned. He could ruin his
friends with as little remorse as he had ruined himself. All
was fair game that came in the way of his net. Ihit, never-
theless, he was good-natuicd, and willing to move heaven and
earth to do a friend a good turn, if it came in his way to do so.
He did really love Mark Robarts as much as it was given him
to love any among his acquaintance. He knew that he had
already done him an almost irreparable injury, and might very
probably injure him still deeper before he had done with him.
That he would undoubtedly do so, if it came in his way, was
very certain. But then, if it also came in his way to repay his
friend by any side blow, he would almost undoubtedly do that.
Such an occasion had now come, and he had desired his
sister to give the new Lord Petty Bag no rest till he should
have promised to use all his influence in getting the vacant
prebend for Mark Robarts.
This letter of Sowerby’s Mark immediately showed to his wife.
How lucky, thought he to himself, that not a word was said
in it about those accursed money transactions ! Had he under-
The New Minister’s Patronage 173
Stood Sowerby better he would have known that that gentleman
never said anything about money transactions until it became
absolutely necessary. “ I know you don*t like Mr. Sowerby,”
he said ; “ but you must own that this is very good-natured.”
** It is the character I hear of him that I don’t like,” said
Mrs. Robarts.
“ But w^at shall I do now, Fanny ? As he says, why should
not I have the stall as well as another ? ”
** I suppose it would not interfere with your parish ? ” she
asked.
“ Not in the least, at the distance at which we are. I did
think of giving up old Jones; but if I take this, of course I
must keep a curate.” His wife could not find it in her heart
to dissuade him from accepting promotion when it came in his
way — what vicar’s v/ife would have so persuaded her husband ?
But yet she did not altogether like it. She feared that Greek
from Chaldicotes, even when he came with the present of a
prebendal stall in his hands. And then what would Lady
Lufton say?
“And do you think that you must go up to London,
Mark?”
“Oh, certainly ; that is, if I intend to accept Harold Smith’s
kind offices in the matter.”
“ I suppose it will be better to accept them,” said Fanny,
feeling perhaps that it would be useless in her to hope that they
should not be accepted
“ Prebendal stalls, Fanny, don’t generally go begging long
among parish clergymen. How could I reconcile it to the duty
I owe to my children to refuse such an increase to my in-
come ? ” And so it was settled that he should at once drive to
Silverbridge and send oflf a message by telegraph, and that he
should himself proceed to London on the following day. “ But
you must see Lady Lufton first, of course,” said Fanny, as soon
as all this was settled. Mark would have avoided this if he
could have decently done so, but he felt that it would be
impolitic, as well as indecent. And why should he be afraid
to tell Lady Lufton that he hoped to receive this piece of promo-
tion from the present government ? There was nothing disgrace-
ful in a clergyman becoming a prebendary of Barchester. Lady
Lufton herself had always l)een very civil to the prebendaries,
and especially to little Dr. Burslem, the meagre little man who
had just now paid the debt of nature. She had always been
very fond of the chapter, and her original dislike to Bishop
Proudie had been chiefly founded on his interference with the
174 Framley Parsonage
cathedral clergy, — on his interference, or on that of his wife or
chaplain. Considering these things Mark Robarts tried to
make himself believe that Lady Lufton would be delighted at
his good fortune. But yet he did not believe it. She at any
rate would revolt from the gift of the Greek of Chaldi cotes.
“ Oh, indeed,” she said, when the vicar had with some difficulty
explained to her all the circumstances of the case. “Well,
I congratulate you, Mr. Robarts, on your powerful new
patron.”
“You will probably feel with me, Lady I.ufton, that the
benefice is one which I can hold without any detriment to me
in my position here at Framley,” said he, prudently resolving
to let the slur upon his friends pass by unheeded.
“ Well, 1 hope so. Of course, you are a very young man, Mr.
Robarts, and these things have generally been given to clergy-
men more advanced in life.”
“ But you do not mean to say that you think I ought to
refuse it ? ”
“ What my advice to you might be if you really came to me
for advice, I am hardly prepared to say at so veiy short a
notice. You seem to have made up your mind, and therefore
I need not consider it. As it is, I wish you joy, and hope that
it may turn out to your advantage in every way.”
“ You understand. Lady LuUon, that I have by no means
got it as yet.”
“Oh, I thought it had been offered to you : I thought you
spoke of this new minister as having all that in his own hand.”
“ Oh, dear, no. What may be the amount of his influence
in that respect 1 do not at all know. But my correspondent
assures me ”
“ Mr. Sowerby, you mean. Why don*t you call him by his
name ? ”
“Mr. Sowerby assures me that Mr. Smith will ask for
it; and thinks it most probable that his request will be
successful.”
“Oh, of course. Mr. Sowerby and Mr. Harold Smith
together would no doubt be successful in anything. They are
the sort of men who are successful nowadays. Well, Mr.
Robarts, I wish you joy.” And she gave him her hand in
token of her sincerity. Mark took her hand, resolving to say
nothing further on that occasion. That Lady Lufton was not
now cordial with him, as she used to be, he was well aware ;
and sooner or later he was determined to have the matter out
with her. He would ask her why she now so constantly met
The New Minister’s Patronage 175
him with a taunt, and so seldom greeted him with that kind
old affectionate smile which he knew and appreciated so well.
That he was honest and true he was quite sure. If he asked
her the question plainly, she would answer him openly. And
if he could induce her to say that she would return to her old
ways, return to them she would in a hearty manner. But he
could not do this just at present. It was but a day or two
since Mr. Crawley had been with him ; and was it not probable
that Mr. Crawley had been sent thither by Lady Lufton ? His
own hands were not clean enough for a remonstrance at the
present moment. He would cleanse them, and then he would
remonstrate. “ Would you like to live part of the year in
Barchester ? ” he said to his wife and sister that evening.
“ I think that two houses are only a trouble,*’ said his wife,
“ And we have been veiy happy here.”
“ I have always liked a cathedral town,” said Lucy ; “ and 1
am particularly fond of the close.”
“ And Barchester-close is the closest of all closes,” said
Mark. “ I'here is not a singl * house within the gateways that
does not belong to the chapter.”
** But if we are to keep up two houses, the additional income
will soon be wasted,” said Fanny, prudently.
“The thing would be to let the house furnished every
summer,” said Lucy.
“ But I must take my residence as the terms come,” said the
vicar; “and I certainly should not like to be away from
Framley all the winter ; I should never see anything of Lufton.”
And perhaps he thought of his hunting, and then thought
again of that cleansing of his hands.
“ I should not a bit mind being away during the winter,”
said Lucy, thinking of what the last winter had done for her.
“ But where on earth should we find money to furnish one
of those large, old-fashioned houses ? Pray, Mark, do not do
anything rash.” And the wife laid her hand affectionately on
her husband’s arm. In this manner the question of the
prebend was discussed between them on the evening before he
started for London. Success had at last crowned the earnest
effort with which Harold Smith had carried on the political
battle of his life for the last ten years. The late Lord Petty
Bag had resigned in disgust, having been unable to digest the
Prime Minister’s ideas on Indian Reform, and Mr. Harold
Smith, after sundry hitches in the business, was installed in his
place. It was said that Harold Smith was not exactly the man
whom the Premier would himself have chosen for that high
176 Framley Parsonage
office; but the Premier’s hands were a good deal tied by
circumstances. The last great appointment he had made had
been terribly unpopular, — so much so as to subject him, popular
as he undoubtedly was himself, to a screech from the whole
nation. The Jupiter^ with withering scorn, had asked whether
vice of every kind was to be considered, in these days of
Queen Victoria, as a passport to the cabinet. Adverse members
of both Houses had arrayed themselves in a pure panoply of
morality, and thundered forth their sarcasms with the indignant
virtue and keen discontent of political Juvenals ; and even his
own friends had held up their hands in dismay. Under these
circumstances he had thought himself obliged in the present
instance to select a man who would not be especially objec-
tionable to any party. Now Harold Smith lived with his wife,
and his circumstances were not more than ordinarily em-
barrassed. He kept no race-horses ; and, as Lord P>rock now
heard for the first time, gave lectures in provincial towns on
popular subjects. He had a seat which was tolerably secure,
and could talk to the House by the yard if required to do
so. Moreover, Lord Brock had a great idea that the whole
machinery of his own ministry would break to pieces very
speedily. His own reputation was not bad, but it was in-
sufficient for himself and that lately selected friend of his.
Under all these circumstances combined, he chose Harold
Smith to fill the vacant office of Lord Petty Bag. And very
proud the Lord Petty Bag was. For the last three or four
months, he and Mr. Supi^lehouse had been agreeing to consign
the ministry to speedy perdition, “ This sort of dictatorship
will never do,” Harold Smith had himself said, justifying that
future vote of his as to want of confidence in the Queen’s
government. And Mr. Supplehouse in this matter had fully
agreed with him. He was a Juno whose form that wicked old
Paris had utterly despised, and he, too, had quite made up his
mind as to the lobby in which he would be found when that
day of vengeance should arrive. But now things were much
altered in Harold Smith’s views. The Premier had shown his
wisdom in seeking for new strength where strength ought to be
sought, and introducing new blood into the body of his
miinistry. The people would now feel fresh confidence, and
pripbably the House also. As to Mr, Supplehouse — he would
use )all his infiuence on Supplehouse. But, after all, Mr.
Supplehouse was not everything.
(jn the morning after our vicar’s arrival in London he
att^ended at the Petty Bag office. It w.is situated in the close
The New Minister's Patronage 177
neighbourhood of Downing Street and the higher governmental
gods; and though the building itself was not much, seeing that
it was shored up on one side, that it bulged out in the front,
was foul with smoke, dingy with dirt, and was devoid of any
single architectural grace or modern scientific improvement,
nevertheless its position gave it a status in the world which
made the cl'^ks in the Lord Petty Bag^s office quite respectable
in their walk in life. Mark had seen his friend Sowerby on
the previous evening, and had then made an appointment with
him for the following morning at the new minister’s office.
And now he was there a little before his time, in order that he
might have a few moments’ chat with his brother. When
Mark found himself in the private secretary’s room he was
quite astonished to see the change in his brother’s appearance
which the change in his official rank had produced. Jack
Robarts had been a well-buiit, straight-legged, lissome young
fellow, pleasant to the eye because of his natural advantages,
but rather given to a harum-skarurii style of gait, and
occasionally careless, not to sf.y slovenly, in his dress. But
now he w^as the very pink of perfection. His jaunty frock-coat
fitted him to perfection ; not a hair of his head was out of
place ; his waistcoat and trousers were glossy and new, and his
um))rella, which stood in the umbrella-stand in the corner, was
tight, and neat, and small, and natty. “Well, John, you’ve
become quite a great man,” said his brother.
“I don’t know much about that,” said John; “but I find
that I have an enormous deal of fagging to go through.”
“Do you mean work ? I thought you had about the easiest
berth in the whole Civil Service.”
“Ah! that's just the mistake that people make. Because
we don’t cover whole reams of foolscap paper at the rate of
fifteen lines to a page, and five vrords to a line, people think
that we, private secretaries, have got nothing to do. Look
here,” and he tossed over scornfully a dozen or so of little
notes. “ I tell you what, Mark ; it is no easy matter to
manage the patronage of a cabinet minister. Now 1 am bound
to write to every one of these fellows a letter that will please
him ; and yet 1 shall refuse to every one of them the request
which he asks.”
“ That must be difficult.”
“ Difficult is no word for it. But, after all, it consists chiefly
in the knack of the thing. One must have the wit ‘ from such
a sharp and waspish word as No to pluck the sting.’ 1 do it
every day, and 1 really think that the people like it.”
1 78 Framley Parsonage
“ Perhaps your refusals are better than other people’s
acquiescences.”
“ I don’t mean that at all. We private secretaries have all
to do the same thing. Now, would you believe it ? I have
used up three lifts of notepapcr already in telling people that
there is no vacancy for a lobby messenger in the Petty Bag
office. Seven peeresses have asked for it for their favourite
footmen. But there — there’s the Lord Petty Bag ! ” A bell
rang and the private secretary, jumping up from his notepaper,
tripped away quickly to the great man’s room. “ He’ll see
you at once,” said he, returning. “ Buggins, show the
Reverend Mr. Robarts to the Lord Petty Bag.” Buggins was
the messenger for whose not vacant place all the pt:cresses
were striving with so much animation. And then Mark,
following Buggins for two steps, was ushered into the next
room.
If a man be altered by becoming a private secretary, he is
much more altered by being made a cabinet minister.
Robarts, as he entered the room, could hardly believe that
this was the same Harold Smith whom Mrs. Proudie bothered
so cruelly in the lecture-room at Barchester. Then he was
cross, and touchy, and uneasy, and insignificant. Now, as he
stood smiling on the hearthrug of his official fireplace, it was
quite pleasant to see the kind, patronizing smile which lighted
up his features. He delighted to stand there, with his hands
in his trousers pocket, the great man of the place, conscious
of his lordship, and feeling himself every inch a minister.
Sowerby had come with him, and was standing a little in the
background, from which position he winked occasionally at
the parson over the minister’s shoulder. “Ah, Robarts,
delighted to see you. How odd, by-the-by, that your brother
should be my private secretary I ” Mark said that it was a
singular coincidence.
“ A very smart young fellow, and, if he minds himself, he’ll
do well.”
“ I’m quite sure he’ll do well,” said Mark.
“ Ah ! well, yes ; I think he will. And now, what can I do
for you, Robarts ? ” Hereupon Mr. Sowerby struck in, making
it apparent by his explanation that Mr. Robarts himself by no
means intended to ask for anything ; but that, as his friends
had thought that this stall at Barchester might be put into his
hands with more fitness than in those of any other clergyman
of the day, he was willing to accept the piece of preferment
from a man whom he respected so much as he did the new
Money Dealings 179
Lord Petty Bag. The minister did not quite like this, as it
restricted him from much of liis condescension, and robbed him
of the incense of a petition which he had expected Mark
Robarts would make to him. But, nevertheless, he was very
gracious. “ He could not take upon himself to declare,” he
said, “ what might he Lord Brock's pleasure with reference to
the preferr^ent at Barchester which was vacant. He had cer-
tainly already spoken to his lordship on the subject, and had
perhaps some reason to believe that his own wishes would be
consulted. No distinct promise had been made, i)ut he might
perhaps go so far as to say that he expected such result. If so,
it would give him the greatest [)leasure in the world to
congratulate Mr. Robarts on the possession of the stall — a stall
which he was sure Mr. Robarts would fill with dignity, piety, and
brotherly love.” And thcri, when he had finished, Mr. Sowerby
gave a final wink, and said that he regarded the matter as
settled.
“ No, not settled, Nathaniel,” said the cautious minister.
*‘It’s the same thing,” rej(.‘ned Sowerby. “We all know
what all that flummery means. Men in office, Mark, never do
make a distinct promise, — not even to themselves of the leg of
mutton which is roasting before their kitchen fires. It is
so necessary in these days to be safe ; is it not, Harold ? ”
“ Most expedient,” said Harold Smith, shaking his head
wisely. “ Well, Robarts, who is it now ? ” This he said to his
private secretary, who came to notice the arrival of some bigwig.
“Well, yes. I will say good morning, with your have, for I
am a little hurried. And remember, Mr. Robarts, 1 will do
what I c.'xn for you ; but you must distinctly understand that
there is no promise.”
“Oh, no promise at all,” said Sowerby — “of course not.”
And then, as he sauntered up Whitehall towards Charing
Cross, with Robarts on his arm, he again pressed upon him
the sale of that invaluable hunter, who was eating his head off
his shoulders in the stable at Chaldicotes.
CHAPTER XIX
MON EY D£ ALl NGS
Mr. Sowerby, in his resolution to obtain this good gift for the
Vicar of Framley, did not depend quite alone on the influence
of his near connection with the Lord Petty Bag. He felt the
occasion to be one on which he might endeavour to move
even higher powers than that, and therefore he had opened
i8o Framley Parsonage
the matter to the duke — not by direct application, but through
Mr. Fothergill. No man who understood matters ever thought
of going direct to the duke in such an affair as that. If one
wanted to speak about a woman or a horse or a picture the
duke could, on occasions, be affable enough. But through
Mr. Fothergill the duke was approached. It was represented,
with some cunning, that this buying over of the Framley
clergyman from the Lufton side would be a praiseworthy
spoiling of the Amalekites. The doing so would give the
Omnium interest a hold even in the cathedral close. And
then it was known to all men that Mr. Robarts had consider-
able influence over Lord Lufton himself. So guided, the
Duke of Omnium did say two words to the Prime Minister,
and two words from the duke went a great way, even with
Lord Brock. The upshot of all this was, that Mark Robarts
did get the stall ; but he did not hear the tidings of his success
till some days after his return to Framley.
Mr. Sowerby did not forget to tell him of the great effort —
the unusual effort, as he of Chaldicotes called it — which the
duke had made on the subject. “ I don’t know when he has
done such a thing before,” said Sowerby ; “ and you may be
quite sure of this, he would not have done it now, had you not
gone to Gatherum Castle when he asked you : indeed, Fother-
gill would have known that it was vain to attempt it. And I’ll
tell you what, Mark — it does not do for me to make little of
my own nest, but I truly believe the duke’s word will be more
efficacious than the Lord Petty Bag’s solemn adjuration.”
Mark, of course, expressed his gratitude in proper terms, and
did buy the horse for a hundred and thirty pounds. “ He’s
as well worth it,” said Sowerby, “as any animal that ever stood
on four legs ; and my only reason for pressing him on you is, that
when Tozer’s day does come round, 1 know you will have to
stand to us to something about that tune.” It did not occur
to Mark to ask him why the horse should not be sold to some
one else, and the money forthcoming in the regular way. But
this would not have suited Mr. Sowerby.
Mark knew that the beast was good, and as he walked to
his lodgings was half proud of his new possession. But then,
how would he justify it to his wife, or how introduce the animal
into his stables without attempting any justiflcation in the
matter? And yet, looking to the absolute amount of his
income, surely he might feel himself entitled to buy a new
horse when it suited him. He wondered what Mr. Crawley
would say when he heard of the new purchase. He had lately
Money Dealings i8i
fallen into a state of much wondering as to what his friends
and neighbours would say about him. He had now been two
days in town, and was to go down after breakfast on the
following morning so that he might reach home by Friday
afternoon. But on that evening, just as he was going to bed,
he was surprised by Lord Lufton coming into the coffee-room
at his hotel. He walked in with a hurried step, his face was
red, and it was clear that he was very angry. “ Robarts,” said
he, walking up to his friend and taking the hand that was
extended to him, “do you know anything about this man
Tozer?”
“ Tozer — what Tozer ? I have heard Sowerby speak of
such a man.”
“ Of course you have. If I do not mistake you have written
to me about him yourself.”
“Very probably. I remember Sowerby mentioning the
man with reference to your affairs. But why do you ask
me ? ”
“ This man has not only written to me, but has absolutely
forced his way into my rooms when I was dressing for dinner ;
and absolutely had the impudence to tell me that if I did not
honour some bill which he holds for eight hundred pounds he
would proceed against me.”
“ But you settled all that matter with Sowerby ? ”
“ 1 did settle it at a very great cost to me. Sooner than
have a fuss, 1 paid him through the nose — like a fool that 1
was — everything that he claimed. This is an absolute swindle,
and if it goes on I will expose it as such.” Robarts looked
round the room, but luckily there was not a soul in it but
themselves. “You do not mean to say that Sowerby is
swindling you ? ” said the clergyman.
“ It looks very like it,” said Lord Lufton ; “ and I tell you
fairly that I am not in a humour to endure any more of this
sort of thing. Some years ago I made an ass of myself
through that man’s fault. But four thousand pounds should
have covered the whole of what I really lost. I have now paid
more than three times that sum ; and, by heavens i 1 will not
pay more without exposing the whole affair.”
“But, Lufton, I do not understand. What is this bill? —
has it your name to it ? ”
“Yes, it has: I’ll not deny my name, and if there be
absolute need I will pay it ; but, if I do so, my lawyer shall sift
it, and it shall go before a jury.”
“ But I thought all those bills were paid ? ”
1 82 Framley Parsonage
“ I left it to Sowerby to get up the old bills when they were
renewed, and now one of them that has in truth been already
honoured is brought against me.” Mark could not but think
of the two documents which he himself had signed, and both
of which were now undoubtedly in the hands of 'I'ozer, or of
some other gentleman of the same profession ; — which both
might be brought against him, the second as soon as he
should have satisfied the first. And then he remembered that
Sowerby had said something to him about an outstanding bill,
for the filling up of which some trifle must be paid, and of this
he reminded Lord Lufton.
** And do you call eight hundred pounds a trifle ? If so, I do
not.”
“ They will probably make no such demand as that.”
“But I tell you they do make such a demand, and have
made it. The man whom I saw, and who told me that he was
Tozer’s friend, but who was probably Tozer himself, positively
swore to me that he would be obliged to take legal pro-
ceedings if the money were not forthcoming within a week
or ten days. When I explained to him that it was an old
bill that had been renewed, he declared that his friend had
given full value for it.”
“Sowerby said that you would probably have to pay ten
pounds to redeem it. I should offer the man some such sum
as that.” •
“ My intention is to offer the man nothing, but to leave the
affair in the hands of my lawyer with instructions to him to
spare none ; neither myself nor any one else. I am not going
to allow such a man as Sowerby to squeeze me like an
orange.”
“ But, Lufton, you seem as though you w’ere angry with me.”
“ No, I am not. But I think it is as well to caution you
about this man ; my transactions with him lately have chiefly
been through you, and therefore ”
“ But they have only been so through his and your wish :
because I have been anxious to oblige you both. I hope you
don’t mean to say that I am concerned in these bills.”
“ I know that you are concerned in bills with him.”
“ Why, Lufton, am I to understand, then, that you are accu-
sing me of having any interest in these transactions which you
have called swindling ? ”
“ As far. as I am concerned there has been swindling, and
there is swindling going on now.”
“ But you do not answer my question. Do you bring any
Money Dealings
183
ilsation against me ? If so, I agree with you that you had
etter go to your lawyer.”
“ I think that is what I shall do.”
‘ Very well. But, upon the whole, I never heard of a more
Unreasonable man, or of one whose thoughts are more unjust
than yours. Solely with the view of assisting you, and solely
i t your request, I spoke to Sowerby about these money trans-
ctions of yours. Then, at his request, which originated out
f your request, he using me as his ambassador to you, as you
ad used me as yours to him, I wrote and spoke to you. And
lOw this is the upshot.”
“ I bring no accusation against you, Robarts ; but I know
you have dealings with this man. You have told me so your-
self.”
“ Yes, at his request to accommodate him. I have put my
name to a bill."
Only to one ? ”
“ Only to one ; and then to that same renewed, or not exactly
to that same, but to one which stands for it. The first was for
four hundred pounds ; the last for five hundred.”
“ All which you will have to make good, and the world will of
course tell you that you have paid that price for this stall at
Barchester.” This was terrible to be borne. He had heard
much lately which liad frightened and scared him, but nothing
so terrible as this ; nothing which so stunned him, or
conveyed to his mind so frightful a reality of misery
and ruin. He made no immediate answer, but, standing on the
hearthrug with his back to the fire, looked up the whole length
of the room. Hitherto his eyes had been fixed upon Lord
Lufton’s face, but now it seemed to him as though he had but
little more to do with Lord Lufton. Lord Lufton and Lord
Lufton's mother were neither now to be counted among those
who wished him well. Upon whom indeed could he now
count, except that wife of his bosom upon whom he was bring-
ing all this wretchedness ? In that moment of agony ideas ran
quickly through his brain. He would immediately abandon
this preferment at Barchester, of which it might be said with so
much colour that he had bought it. He would go to Harold
Smith, and say positively that he declined it. Then he would
return home and tell his wife all that had occurred ; — tell the
E hole also to Lady Lufton, if that might still be of any service,
[e would make arrangement for the payment of both those bills
they might be presented, asking no questions as to the
stice of the claim, making no complaint to any one, not even to
184 Framley Parsonage
Sowerby. He would put half his income, if half were necessary
into the hands of Forrest the banker, till all was paid. li
would sell every horse he had. He would part with his footm^
and groom, and at any rate strive like a man to get again a fill
footing on good ground. Then, at that moment, he loath^
with his whole soul the position in which he found himsei
placed, and his own folly which had placed him there. Hoin
could he reconcile it to his conscience that he was there
London with Sowerby and Harold Smith, petitioning for churg
preferment to a man who should have been altogether powe9
less in such a matter, buying horses, and arranging about pa^
due bills ? He did not reconcile it to bis conscience. Mr
Crawley had been right when he told him that he was a
castaway.
Lord Lufton, whose anger during the whole interview had
been extreme, and who had become more angry the more he
talked, had now walked once or twice up and down the room ;
and as he so walked the idea did occur to him that he had been
unjust. He had come there with the intention of exclaiming
against Sowerby, and of inducing Robarts to convey to tha
gentleman, that if he. Lord Lufton, were made to undergo an>
further annoyance about this bill, the whole affair should h
thrown into the lawyer's hands ; but instead of doing this, he
had brought an accusation against Robarts. That Robarts had
latterly become Sowerby's friend rather than his own in all the*
horrid money dealings, had galled him ; and now he ha
expressed himself in terms much stronger than he had intende
to use. “ As to you personally, Mark,” he said, coming bac
to the spot on which Robarts was standing, “ I do not wish t
say anything that shall annoy you.”
“ You have said quite enough, Lord Lufton.”
“ You cannot be surprised that I should be angry ar
indignant at the treatment I have received.”
“ You might, I think, have separated in your mind tho
who have wronged you, if there has been such wrong, fro
those who have only endeavoured to do your will and pieasu
for you. That I, as a clergyman, have been very wrong
taking any part whatsoever in these matters, I am well awart
That as a man I have been outrageously foolish in lending n
name to Mr. Sowerby, I also know well enough : it is, perhap
as well that I should be told of this somewhat rudely ; but
certainly did not expect the lesson to come from you.”
“ Well, there has been mischief enough. The question
what we had better now both do ? *
Money Dealings 185
“ You have said what you mean to do. You will put the
Tair into the hands of your lawyer.”
“ Not with any object of expensing you.”
“ Exposing me, Lord Lufton ! Why, one would think that
. had had the handling of your money.”
“ You will misunderstand me. 1 think no such thing. But
00 you not know yourself that if legal steps be taken in this
retched affair, your arrangements with Sowerby will be brought
• light ? ”
“ My arrangements with Sowerby will consist in paying or
^laving to pay, on his account, a large sum of money, for which
1 have never had and shall never have any consideration what-
ever.”
“And what will be said about this stall at Barchester? ”
“ After the charge which you brought against me just now,
I shall decline to accept it.” At this moment three or four
other gentlemen entered the room, and the conversation between
our two friends was stopped. They still remained standing
lear the fire, but for a few minutes neither of them said
anything. Ro harts w^as waiting till Loid Lufton should go
away, and Lord Lufton had not yet said that which he had
come to say. At last he spoke again, almost in a whisper :
“ I think it will be best to ask Sowerby to come to my rooms
''o-morrow, and I think also that you should meet him
lere.”
“ I do not see any necessity for my presence,” said Robarts.
‘ It seems probable that I shall suffer enough for meddling
/ith your affairs, and I will do so no more.”
“ Of course, I cannot make you come ; but I think it will be
mly just to Sowerby, and it will be a favour to me.” Robarts
gain walked up and down the room for half-a-dozen times,
ying to resolve what it would most become him to do in the
resent emergency. If his name were dragged before the
ourts, — if he should be shown up in the public papers as
aving been engaged in accommodation bills, that would
ertainly be ruinous to him. He had already learned from
^rd Lufton's innuendoes what he might expect to hear as the
ublic version of his share in these transactions ! And then his
;ife, — how would she bear such exposure ? “I will meet
Ir. Sowerby at your rooms to-morrow, on one condition,” he
^ last said.
^ “ And what is that ? ”
* “ That I receive your positive assurance that I am not
LspeCted by you of having had any pecuniary interest what-
1 86 Framley Parsonage
ever in any money matters with Mr. Sowerby, either as concerns
your affairs or those of anybody else.”
“ I have never suspected you of any such thing. But I havj
thought that you were compromised with him.”
“ And so 1 am — 1 am liable for these bills. But you oughts
to have known, and do know, that I have never received a
shilling on account of such liability. I have endeavoured to
oblige a man whom I regarded first as your friend, and then
my own ; and this has been the result.” Lord Lufton did aj|
last give him the assurance that he desired, as they sat witl|
their heads together over one of the coffee-room tables ; and
then Robarts promised that he would postpone his return to
Framley till the Saturday, so that he might meet Sowerby at
Lord Lufton’s chambers in the Albany on the following after-
noon. As soon as this was arranged, Lord Lufton took his
leave and went his way.
After that poor Mark had a very uneasy night of it. It was
clear enough that Lord Lufton had thought, if he did not still
think, that the stall at Barchester was to be given as pecuniary
recompense in return for certain money accommodation to he
afforded by the nominee to the dispenser of this patronage.
Nothing on’ earth could be worse than this, In the first place
it would be simony ; and then it would be simony beyond all
description mean and simoniacal. The very thought of it filled
Mark's sohl with horror and dismay. It might l)e that Lord
Lufton's suspicions were now at rest ; but others would
think the same thing, and their suspicions it would be
impossible to allay; those others would consist of the outer
world, w'hich is always so eager to gloal over the detected
vice of a clergyman. And then that wretclied horse which he
had purchased, and the purchase of which should have j»ro-
hibited him from saying that nothing of value had accrued to
him in these transactions with Mr. Sowerby ! what was he to do
about that ? And then of late he had been spending, and had
continued to spend, moie money than he could well afford.
This very journey of his up to London would be most im-
prudent, if it should become necessary for him to give up all
hope of holding the prebend. As to that he had made up his
mind ; but then again he unmade it, as men always do in such
troubles. That line of conduct which he had laid down for
himself in the first moments of his indignation against Lord
Lufton, by adopting which he would have to encounter poverty,
and ridicule, and discomfort, the annihilation of his high hopes,
and the ruin of his ambition —that, he said to himself over anc
Money Dealings 187
over again, would now be the best for him. But it is so hard
for us to give up our high hopes, and willingly encounter poverty,
ridicule, and discomfort I
On the following morning, however, he boldly walked down
to the Petty Bag office, determined to let Harold Smith know
that he was no longer desirous of the Barchester stall. He
found his brother there, still writing artistic notes to anxious
peeresses on the subject of Buggins* non-vacant situation ; but
the great man of the place, the Lord Petty Bag himself, was
not there. He might probably look in when the House was
beginning to sit, perhaps at four or a little after ; but he
certainly would not be at the office in the morning. The
functions of the Lord Petty Bag he was no doubt performing
elsewhere. Perhaps he had carried his work home with him —
a practice whicli tlj.'. woild should know is not uncommon with
civil servants of exceeding zeal. !Mark did think of opening
his heart to his brother, and of leaving his message with him.
But his courage failed him, or perhaps it might be more
correct to say tiiat his iirudeiv. e prevented him. It would be
better for him, he thought, to tell his wife before he told any
one else. So he merely chatted with his brother for half an
hour and then left him. The day was very tedious till the
hour came at which he was to attend Lord Lufton’s rooms ;
but at last it did come, and just as the clock struck he turned
out of Piccadilly into the Albany. As he was going across the
court before he entered the building, he was greeted by a voice
just behind him. “ As punctual as the big clock on Barchester
tower,” said Mr. Soweiby. “ Sec what it is to have a summons
from a groat man, Mr. Prebendary.” He turned round and ex-
tended his hand mechanically to Mr. Sowerby, and as he looked
at him he thought he had never before seen him sc pleasant
in appearance, so free from care, and so joyous in demeanour.
“ You have heard from Lord Lufton,” said Mark, in a voice
that was certainly very lugubrious.
“ Heard from him ! oh, yes, of course I have heard from
him. ril tell you what it is, Mark,” and he now spoke almost
in a whisper as they walked together along the Albany passage,
“ Lufton is a child in money matters — a perfect chili The
dearest, finest fellow in the world, you know ; but a very baby
in money matters.” And then they entered his lordship's
rooms. Lord Lufton’s countenance also was lugubrious enough,
but this did not in the least abash Sowerby, who walked
quickly up to the young lord with his gait perfectly self-
possoised and his face radiant with satisfaction.
1 88 Framley Parsonage
“ Well, Lufton, how are you ? ” said he. “ It seems that my
worthy friend Tozer has been giving you some trouble?"
Then Lord Lufton with a face by no means radiant with
satisfaction again began the story of Tozer's fraudulent demand
upon him. Sowerby did not interrupt him, but listened
patiently to the end ; — quite patiently, although Lord Lufton,
as he made himself more and more angry by the history of his
own wrongs, did not hesitate to pronounce certain threats
against Mr. Sowerby, as he had pronounced them before
against Mark Robarts. He would not, he said, pay a shilling,
except through his lawyer ; and he would instruct his lawyer,
that before he paid anything, the whole matter should be
exposed openly in court. He did not care, he said, what
might be the effect on himself or any one else, lie was
determined that the whole case should go to a jury. “To
grand jury, and special jury, and common jury, and Old Jewry,
if you like,” said Sowerby. “ The truth is, Lufton, you lost
some money, and as there was some delay in paying it, you
have been harassed.”
** I have paid more than I lost three times over,” said Lord
Lufton, stamping his foot,
“ I will not go into that question now. It was settled, as 1
thought, some time ago by persons to whom you yourself
referred it. But will you tell me this : Why on earth should
Robarts be troubled in this matter ? What has he done ? ”
“ Well, 1 don’t know. He arranged the matter with you.”
“ No such thing. He was kind enough to carry a message
from you to me, and to convey back a return message from me
to you. That has been his part in it.”
“You don’t suppose that I want to implicate him ; do
you ? ”
“ I don’t think you want to implicate any one, but you are
hot-headed and difficult to deal with, and very irrational into
the bargain. And, what is worse, I must say you are a little
suspicious. In all this matter I have harassed myself greatly
to oblige you, and in return I have got more kicks than
halfpence.”
“ Did not you give this bill to Tozer — the bill which he now
holds?”
“ In the first place he does not hold it ; and in the next
place I did not give it to him. These things pass through
scores of hands before they reach the man who makes the
application for payment.”
“ And who came to me the other day ? ”
Money Dealings 189
“ That, I take it, was Tom Tozer, a brother of our Tozer’s.”
“ Then he holds the bill, for I saw it with him.”
“ Wait a moment ; that is very likely. I sent you word that
you would have to pay for taking it up. Of course they don’t
abandon those sort of things without some consideration.”
“ Ten pounds, you said,” observed Mark.
“ Ten or twenty ; some such sum as that. But you were
hardly so soft as to suppose that the man would ask for such a
sum. Of course he would demand the full payment. There
is the bill, Lord Lufton,” and Sowerby, producing a document,
handed it across the table to his lordship. “ I gave five-and-
twenty pounds for it this morning.” Lord Lufton took the
paper and looked at it. “Yes,” said he, “that’s the bill.
What am I to do with it now ? ”
“Put it with the lainily archives,” said Sowerby, — “or
behind the fire, just which you please.”
“ And is this the last of them ? Can no other be brought
up?”
“ You know belter than I do what paper you may have put
your hand to. 1 know of no other. At the last renewal that
was the only outstanding bill of which I was aware.”
“ And you have paid five-and-twenty pounds for it ? ”
“ I have. Only that you have been in such a tantrum about
it, and would have made such a noise this afternoon if I had
not brought it, I might have had it for fifteen or twenty. In
diree or four days they would have taken fifteen.”
“ The odd ten pounds does not signify, and I’ll pay you the
twenty-five, of course,” said Lord Lufton, who now began to
feel a little ashamed of himself.
“You may do as you please about that.”
“ Oh ! it’s my affair, as a matter of course. Any amount of
that kind I don’t mind,” and he sat down to fill in a check for
the money.
“ Well, now, Lufton, let me say a few words to you,” said
Sowerby, standing with his back against the fireplace, and
playing with a small cane which he held in his hand. “ For
heaven’s sake try and be a little more charitable to those
around you. When you become fidgety about anything, you
indulge in language which the world won’t stand, though men
who know you as well as Robarts and I may consent to put
up with it. You have accused me, since I have been here, of
all manner of iniquity ”
“Now, Sowerby ”
“My dear fellow, let me have my say out. You have
190 Framley Parsonage
accused me, I say, and I believe that you have accused him. But
it has never occurred to you, I daresay, to accuse yourself.”
“Indeed it has.”
“ Of course you have been wrong in having to do with such
men as Tozer. I have also been very wrong. It wants no
great moral authority to tell us that. Pattern gentlemen don't
have dealings with Tozer, and very much the better they are
for not having them. But a man should have back enough to
bear the weight which he himself puts on it. Keep away from
Tozer, if you can, for the future ; but if you do deal with him,
for heaven's sake keep your temper.”
“ That's all very fine, Sowerby ; but you know as well as I
do ”
“I know this,” said the devil, quoting Scripture, as he
folded up the check for twenty-five pounds, and put it in his
pocket, “ that when a man sows tares, he won't reap wheat,
and it's no use to expect it. I am tough in these matters, and
can bear a great deal — that is, if I be not pushed too far,” and
he looked full into Lord Lufton’s face as he spoke ; but I
think you have been very hard upon Robarts.”
“ Never mind me, Sowerby ; l^rd Lufton and I are very old
friends.”
“ And may therefore take a liberty with each other. Very
well. And now Fve done my sermon. My dear dignitary,
allow me to congratulate you. I hear from Fothergill that that
little affair of yours has been definitely settled.” Mark's face
again became clouded. “I rather think,” said he, “that I
shall decline the presentation.”
“ Decline it ! ” said Sowerby, who, having used his utmost
efforts to obtain it, would have been more absolutely offended
by such vacillation on the vicar's part than by any personal
abuse which either he or Lord Lufton could heap upon him.
“ I think I shall,” said Mark.
“And why?” Mark looked up at Lord Lufton, and then
remained silent for a moment.
“ There can be no occasion for such a sacrifice under the
present circumstances,” said his lordship.
“ And under what circumstances could there be occasion for
it ? ” asked Sowerby. “ The Duke of Omnium has used some
little influence to get the place for you as a parish clergyman
belonging to his county, and I should think it monstrous if you
were now tp reject it.” And then Robarts openly stated the
whole of his reasons, explaining exactly what Lord Lufton
had said with reference to the bill transactions, and to the alle-
Harold Smith in the Cabinet 191
gation which would be made as to the stall having been given
in payment for the accommodation.
“Upon my word that*s too bad,” said Sowerby.
“ Now, Sowerby, I won’t be lectured,” said Lord Lufton.
“ I have done my lecture,” said he, aware, perhaps, that it
would not do for him to push his friend too far, “ and I shall
not give a second. But, Robarts, let me tell you this : as far
as 1 know, Harold Smith has had little or nothing to do with
the appointment. The duke has told the Prime Minister that
he was very anxious that a parish clergyman from the county
should go into the chapter, and then, at Lord Brock’s request,
he named you. If under those circumstances you talk of
giving it up, I shall believe you to be insane. As for the bill
which you accepted for me, you need have no uneasiness
about it. The money \vj 11 he ready ; but of course, when that
time comes, you will let me have the hundred and thirty
for ” And then Mr. Sowerby took his leave, having
certainly made himself master of the occasion. If a man of
fifty have his wits about him, and be not too prosy, he can
generally make himself master of the occasion, when his com-
panions are under thirty. Robarts did not stay at the Albany
long after him, but took his leave, having received some
assurances of Lord Lufton’s regret for what had passed and
many promises of his friendship for the future. Indeed Lord
Lufton was a httle ashamed of himself. “ And as for the pre-
bend, after what has passed, of course you must accept it.”
Nevertheless his lordship had not omitted to notice Mr.
Sowerby’s hint about the horse and the hundred and thirty
pounds.
Robarts, as he walked back to his hotel, thought that he
certainly would accept the Barchester promotion, and was very
glad that he had said nothing on the subject to his brother.
On the whole his spirits were much raised. That assurance of
Sowerby’s about the bill was very comforting to him ; and,
strange to say, he absolutely believed it. In truth, Sowerby had
been so completely the winning horse at the late meeting, that
both Lord Lufton and Robarts were inclined to believe almost
anything he said ; — which was not always the case with either
of them.
CHAPTER XX
HAROLD SMITH IN THE CABINET
For a few days the whole Harold Smith party held their
heads .very high. It was not only that their man had been
♦n x8i
192 Framley Parsonage
made a cabinet minister ; but a rumour had got abroad that
Lord Brock, in selecting him, had amazingly strengthened his
party, and done much to cure the wounds which his own
arrogance and lack of judgment had inflicted on the body
politic of his government. So said the Harold-Smithians, much
elated. And when we consider what Harold had himself
achieved, we need not be surprised that he himself was some-
what elated also. It must be a proud day for any man when
he first walks into a cabinet. But when a humble-minded man
thinks of such a phase of life, his mind becomes lost in wonder-
ing what a cabinet is. Are tliey gods that attend there or men ?
Do they sit on chairs, or hang about on clouds ? When they
speak, is the music of the spheres audible in their Olympian
mansion, making heaven drowsy with its harmony? In what
way do they congregate ? In what order do they address each
other? Are the voices of all the deities free and equal? Is
plodding 'fhemis from the Home Department, or Ceres from
the Colonics, heard with as rapt attention as powerful Pallas of
the Foreign Office, the goddess that is never seen without her
lance and helmet ? Does our Whitehall Mars make eyes there
at bright young Venus of the Privy Seal, disgusting that quaint
tinkering Vulcan, who is blowing his bellows at our Exchequer,
not altogether unsuccessfully ? Old Saturn of the Woolsack sits
there mute, we will say, a relic of other days, as seated in this
divan. The hall in which he rules is now elsewhere. Is our
Mercury of the Post Office ever ready to fly nimbly from globe
to globe, as great Jove may order him, while Neptune, un-
accustomed to the waves, offers needful assistance to the Apollo
of the India Board? How Juno sits apart, glum and huffy,
uncared for. Council President though she be, great in name,
but despised among gods — that we can guess. If Bacchus and
Cupid share Trade and the Board of Works between them, the
fitness of things will have been as fully consulted as is usual.
And modest Diana of the Petty Bag, latest summoned to these
banquets of ambrosia, — does she not cling retiring near the
doors, hardly able as yet to make her low voice heard among
her brother deities? But Jove, great Jove — old Jove, the King
of Olympus, hero among gods and men, how does he carry
himself in these councils summoned by his voice ? Does he lie
there at his ease, with his purple cloak cut from the firmament
around his shoulders ? Is his thunderbolt ever at his hand to
reduce a recreant god to order? Can he proclaim silence in
that immortal hall ? Is it not there, as elsewhere, in all places,
and among all nations, that a king of gods and a king of men
Harold Smith in the Cabinet 193
is and will be Icing, rules and will rule, over those who are
smaller than himself?
Harold Smith, when he was summoned to the august hall of
divine councils, did feel himself to be a proud man ; but we
may perhaps conclude that at the first meeting or two he did
not attempt to take a very leading part. Some of my readers
may have sat at vestries, and will remember how mild, and, for
the most part, mute is a newcomer at their board. He agrees
generally, with abated enthusiasm ; but should he differ, he
apologizes for the liberty. But anon, when the voices of his
colleagues have become habitual in his ears — when tlic strange-
ness of the room is gone, and the table before him is known and
trusted — he throws off his awe and dismay, and electrifies his
brotherhood by the vehemence of his declamation and the
violence of his thumping. So let us suppose it will be with
Harold Smith, perhaps in Jhe second or third season of his
cabinet practice. Alas I alas ! that such pleasures should be so
fleeting ! And then, too, there came upon him a blow which
somewhat modified his triumph — a cruel, dastard blow, from a
hand which should have been friendly to him, from one to
whom he had fondly looked to buoy him up in the great course
that was before him. It had been said by his friends that in
obtaining Harold Smith’s services the Prime Minister had
infused new young healthy blood into his body. Harold him-
self had liked the phrase, and had seen at a glance how it might
have been made to tell by some friendly Supplehousc or the
like. But why should a Supplehouse out of Elysium be friendly
to a Harold Smith within it ? Men lapped in Elysium, steeped
to the neck in bliss, must expect to see their friends fall off from
them. Human nature cannot stand it. If I want to get anything
from my old friend Jones, I like to see him shoved up into a
high place. But if Jones, even in his high place, can do nothing
for me, then his exaltation above my head is an insult and an
injury. Who ever believes his own dear intimate companion to
be fit for the highest promotion ? Mr. Supplehouse had known
Mr. Smith too closely to think much of his young blood.
Consequently, there appeared an article in the Jupiter^
which was by no means complimentary to the ministry in
general. It harped a good deal on the young-blood view of
the question, and seemed to insinuate that Harold Smith w'as
not much better than diluted water. “The Prime Minister,”
the article said, “having lately recruited his impaired vigour by
a new infusion of aristocratic influence of the highest moral tone,
had again added to himself another tower of strength chosen
194 Framley Parsonage
from among the people. What might he not hope, now that
he possessed the services of Lord Brittleback and Mr. Harold
Smith ! Renovated in a Medea’s caldron of such potency, all
his effete limbs — and it must be acknowledged that some of
them had become very effete — would come forth young and
round and robust. A new energy would diffuse itself through
every department ; India would be saved and quieted ; the
ambition of France would be tamed; even-handed reform would
remodel our courts of law and parliamentary elections ; and
Utopia would be realized. Such, it seems, is the result ex-
pected in the ministry from Mr. Harold Smith’s young blood ! ”
This was cruel enough, but even this was hardly so cruel as
the words with which the article ended. By that time irony
had been dropped, and the writer spoke out earnestly his
opinion upon the matter. “ We beg to assure Lord Brock,”
said the article, “ that such alliances as these will not save him
from the speedy fall with w’hich his arrogance and want of judg-
ment thrLatcn to overwhelm it. As regards himself we shall be
sorry to hear of his resignation. He is in many respects the
best statesman that we possess for the emergencies of the
present period. But if he be so ill-judged as to rest on such
men as Mr. Harold Smith and Lord Brittleback for his
assistants in the work which is before him, he must not expect
that the.country will support him. Mr. Harold Smith is not
made of the stuff from which cabinet ministers should be
formed.” Mr. Harold Smith, as he read this, seated at his
breakfast-table, recognized, or said that he recognized, the
hand of Mr. Supplehouse in every touch. That phrase about
the effete limbs w’as Supplehouse all over, as was also the
realization of Utopia. “ When he wants to be witty, he always
talks about Utopia,” said Mr. Harold Smith to himself :
for Mrs. Harold was not usually present in the flesh at these
matutinal meals. And then he went down to his office, and
saw in the glance of every man that he met an announcement
that that article in the Jupiter had been read. His private
secretary tittered in evident allusion to the article, and the way
in which Buggins took his coat made it clear that it was well
known in the messengers* lobby. “ He won’t have to fill up
my vacancy when I go,” Buggins was saying to himself. And
then in the course of the morning came the cabinet council, the
second that he had attended, and he read in the countenance
of every god and goddess there assembled that their chief was
thought to have made another mistake. If Mr. Supplehouse
could have been induced to write in another strain, then
Harold Smith in the Cabinet 195
indeed that new blood might have been felt to have been
efficacious.
All this was a great drawback to his happiness, but still it
could not rob him of the fact of his position. Lord Brock
could not ask him to resign because the Jupiter had written
against him ; nor was Lord Brock the man to desert a new
colleague for such a reason. So Harold Smith girded his
loins, and went about the duties of the Petty Bag with new
zeal. “ Upon my word, the Jupiter is right,” said young
Robarts to himself, as he finished his fourth dozen of private
notes explanatory of everything in and al:)out the Petty Bag
Office. Harold Smith required that his private secretary’s
notes should be so terribly precise. But nevertheless, in spite
of his drawbacks, Harold Smith was happy in his new honours,
and Mrs. Harold oniith enjoyed them also. She certainly,
among her acquaintance, did quiz the new cabinet minister not
a little, and it may be a question whether she was not as hard
upon him as the writer in the Jupiter. She whispered a great
deal to Miss Dunstable about new blood, and talked of going
down to Westminster Bridge to see whether the Thames were
really on fire. But though she laughed, she triumphed, and
though she flattered herself that she bore her honours without
any outward sign, the world knew that she was triumphing, and
ridiculed her elation.
About this time she also gave a party — not a pure-minded
conversazione like Mrs. Proudic, but a downright wicked
worldly dance, at which there Avere fiddles, ices, and champagne
sufficient to run away with the first quarter’s salary accruing to
Harold from the Petty Bag Office. To us this ball is chiefly
memorable from the fact that Lady Lufton was among the
guests. Immediately on her arrival in town she received cards
from Mrs. H. Smith for herself and Griselda, and was about to
send back a reply at once declining the honour. AVhat had
she to do at the house of Mr. Sowerby’s sister? But it so
happened that at that moment her son was with her, and as he
expressed a wish that she should go, she yielded. Had there
been nothing in his tone of persuasion more than ordinary, —
had it merely had reference to herself, — she would have smiled
on him for his kind solicitude, have made out some occasion
for kissing his forehead as she thanked him, and would still
have declined. But he had reminded her both of himself and
Griselda. “You might as well go, mother, for the sake of
meeting me,” he said, “Mrs. Harold caught me the other
day, and would not liberate me till I had given her a promise.”
196 Framley Parsonage
“ That is an attraction certainly,” said Lady Liifton. “ I
do like going to a house when I know that you will be there.”
And now that Miss Grantly is with you — you owe it to her
to do the best you can for her.”
“ I certainly do, Ludovic ; and I have to thank you for
reminding me of my duty so gallantly.” And so she said that
she would go to Mrs. Harold Smith’s. Poor lady ! She gave
much more weight to those few words about Miss Grantly than
they deserved. It rejoiced her heart to think that her son was
anxious to meet Griselda — that he should perpetrate this little
ruse in order to gain his wish. But he had spoken out of the
mere emptiness of his mind, without thought of what he was
saying, excepting that he wished to please his mother. But
nevertheless he went to Mrs. Harold Smith’s, and when there
he did dance more than once with Griselda Grantly — to the
manifest discomfiture of Lord Dumbello. He came in late,
and at the moment Lord Dumbello was moving slowly up the
room, with Griselda on his arm, while Lady Lufton was sitting
near looking on with unhappy eyes. And then Griselda sat
down, and Lord Dumbello stood mute at her elbow.
“ Ludovic,” whispered his mother, “ Griselda is absolutely
bored by that man, who follow^s her like a ghost. Do go and
rescue her.” He did go and rescue her, and afterwards
danced with her for the best part of an hour consecutively.
He knew 'that the world gave Lord Dumbello the credit of
admiring the young lady, and was quite alive to the pleasure
of filling his brother nobleman’s heart with jealousy and anger.
Moreover, Griselda was in his eyes very beautiful, and had she
been one whit more animated, or had his mother’s tactics been
but a thought better concealed, Griselda might have been asked
that night to share the vacant throne at laifton, in spite of all
that had been said and sworn in the drawing-room of Framley
parsonage. It must be remembered that our gallant, gay
Lothario had passed some considerable number of days with
Miss Grantly in his mother’s house, and the danger of such
contiguity must be remembered also. Lord Lufion was by no
means a man capable of seeing beauty unmoved or of spending
hours with a young lady without some approach to tenderness.
Had there been no such approach, it is probable that l^dy
Lufton would not have pursued the matter. But, according to
her ideas on such subjects, her son Ludovic had on some
occasions shown quite sufficient partiality for Miss Grantly to
e ' her in her hopes, and to lead her to think that nothing
^:)portunity w'as wanted. Now, at tliis ball of Mrs. Smith’Sf
Harold Smith in the Cabinet 197
he did, for a while, seem to be taking advantage of such
opportunity, and his mother’s heart was glad. If things should
turn out well on this evening she would forgive Mrs. Harold
Smith all her sins. And for a while it looked as though things
would turn out well. Not that it must be supposed that Lord
Lufton had come there with any intention of making love to
Griselda, or that he ever had any fixed thought that he was
doing so. Young men in such matters are so often without
any fixed thoughts ! They are such absolute moths. They
amuse themselves with the light of the beautiful candle,
fluttering about, on and off, in and out of the flame with
dazzled eyes, till in a rash moment they rush in too near the
wick, and then fall with singed wings and crippled legs, burnt
up and reduced to tinder by the consuming fire of matrimony.
Happy marriages, rner' say, are made in heaven, and I believe
it. Most mar.iagcs are fairly happy, in spite of Sir Cresswell
Cresswell ; and yet how little care is taken on earth towards
such a result ! — “ I hope my mother is using you well ? ” said
Lord Lufton to Griselda, as they were standing together in a
doorway between the dances.
“ Oh, yes : she is very kind.”
“ You have been rash to trust yourself in the hands of so
very staid and demure a person. And, indeed, you owe your
presence here at Mrs. Harold Smith’s first cabinet ball
altogether to me. I don’t know whether you are aware of
that.”
“ Oh, yes ; Lady Lufton told me.”
“ And are you grateful or otherwise ? Have I done you an
injury or a benefit ? Which do you find best, sitting with a
novel in the corner of a sofa in Bruton Street, or pretending to
dance polkas here with Lord Dumbello ? ”
“ I don’t know what you mean, I haven’t stood up with
Lord Dumbello all the evening. We were going to dance a
quadrille, but we didn’t.”
“Exactly; just what I say; — pretending to do it. Even
that’s a good deal for Lord Dumbello ; isn’t it ? ” And then
Lord Lufton, not being a pretender himself, put his arm round
her waist, and away they went up and down the room, and
across and about, with an energy which showed that what
Griselda lacked in her tongue she made up with her feet. Lord
Dumbello, in the meantime, stood by, observant, thinking to
himself that Lord Lufton was a glib-tongued, empty-headed
ass, and reflecting that if his rival were to break the tendons of
his leg in one of those rapid evolutions, or suddenly come by
198 Framley Parsonage
any other dreadful misfortune, such as the loss of all his
property, absolute blindness, or chronic lumbago, it would
only serve him right. And in that frame of mind he went to
bed, in spite of the prayer which no doubt he said as to his
forgiveness of other people*s trespasses. And then, when they
were again standing, Lord Lufton, in the little intervals between
his violent gasps for fresh breath, asked Griselda if she liked
London. Pretty well,” said Griselda, gasping also a little
herself.
“ I am afraid — you were very dull — down at Framley.”
“ Oh, no ; — I liked it particularly.”
“ It was a great bore when you went — away, I know. There
wasn't a soul — about the house worth speaking to.” And they
remained silent for a minute till their lungs had become
quiescent.
“ Not a soul,” he continued — not of falsehood prepense, for
he was not in fact thinking of what he was saying. It did not
occur to him at the moment that he had truly found Griselda’s
going a great relief, and that he had been able to do more in
the way of conversation with Lucy Robarts in one hour than
with Miss Grantly during a month of intercourse in the same
house. But, nevertheless, we should not be hard upon him. All
is fair in love and war ; and if this was not love, it was the
usual thing that stands as a counterpart for it.
“ Not a soul,” said Lord Lufton. “ I was very nearly hang-
ing myself in the park next morning — only it rained.”
“ What nonsense ! You had your mother to talk to.”
“ Oh, my mother, — yes ; and you may tell me too, if you
please, that Captain Culpepper was there. I do love my mother
dearly ; but do you think that she could make up for your
absence ? ” And his voice was very lender, and so were his
eyes.
“ And Miss Robarts ; I thought you admired her very
much ? ”
“What, Lucy Robarts?” said Lord Lufton, feeling that
Lucy's name was more than he at present knew how to manage.
Indeed that name destroyed all the life there was in that little
flirtation. “I do like Lucy Robarts, certainly. She is very
clever ; but it so happened that I saw little or nothing of her
after you were gone.” To this Griselda made no answer, but
drew herself up, and looked as cold as Diana when she froze
Orion in the cave. Nor could she be got to give more than
monosyllabic answers to the three or four succeeding attempts
at conversation which Lord Lufton made. And then they
Harold Smith in the Cabinet 199
danced again, but Griselda's steps were by no means so lively
as before. What took place between them on that occasion
was very little more than what has been here related. There
may have been an ice or a glass of lemonade into the bargain,
and perhaps the faintest possible attempt at hand-pressing.
But if so, it was all on one side. To such overtures as that
Griselda Grantly was as cold as any Diana. But little as all
this was, it was sufficient to fill Lady Lufton's mind and heart.
No mother with six daughters was ever more anxious to get
them off her hands, than Lady Lufton was to see her son
married, — married, that is, to some girl of the right sort. And
now it really did seem as though he were actually going to com-
ply with her wishes. She had watched him during the whole
evening, painfully endeavouring not to be observed in doing so.
She had seen Lord Dumbcllo’s failure and wrath, and she had
seen her son’s victory and pride. Could it be the case that
he had already said something, which was still allowed to be
indecisive only through Griselda’s coldness ? Might it not be
the case, that by some judicio\^3 aid on her part, that indecision
might be turned into certainty, and that coldness into warmth ?
But then any such interference requires so delicate a touch, —
as Lady Lufton was well aware. — “ Have you had a pleasant
evening?” Lady Lufton said, when she and Griselda were
seated together with their feet on the fender of her ladyship’s
dressing-room. Lady Lufton had especially invited her guest
into this, her most private sanctum, to which as a rule none had
admittance but her daughter, and sometimes Fanny Robarts.
But to what sanctum might not such a daughter-in-law as
Griselda have admittance ? “Oh, yes — very,” said Griselda.
“ It seemed to me that you bestowed most of your smiles
upon Ludovic.” And Lady Lufton put on a look of good
pleasure that such should have been the case.
“ Oh ! 1 don’t know,” said Griselda ; “ I did dance with him
two or three times.”
“ Not once too often to please me, my dear. I like to see
Ludovic dancing with my friends.”
“ I am sure I am very much obliged to you, Lady Lufton.”
“ Not at all, my dear. I don’t know where he could get
so nice a partner.” And then she paused a moment, not feel-
ing how far she might go. In the meantime Griselda sat still,
staring at the hot coals. “ Indeed, I know that he admires
you very much,” continued Lady Lufton. — “ Oh ! no, I am
sure he doesn’t,” said Griselda ; and then there was another
pause.
200
Framley Parsonage
“ I can only say this,** said Lady Lufton, “ that if he does
do so — and I believe he does — it would give me very great
pleasure. For you know, my dear, that I am very fond of you
myself.**
“ Oh ! thank you,** said Griselda, and stared at the coals
more perseveringly than before.
“ He is a young man of a most excellent disposition — though
he is my own son, I will say that — and if there should be
anything between you and him **
“ There isn*t, indeed. Lady Lufton.**
“ But if there ever should be, I should be delighted to think
that Ludovic had made so good a choice.**
“But there will never be anything of the sort. I’m sure,
Lady Lufton. He is not thinking of such a thing in the
least.**
“ Well, perhaps he may, some day. And now, good-night,
my dear.**
“ Good-night, I-ady Lufton.** And Griselda kissed her with
the utmost composure, and betook herself to her own bedroom.
Before she retired to sleep she looked carefully to her different
articles of dress, discovering what amount of damage the
evening’s wear and tear might have inflicted.
CHAPTER XXI
WHY PUCK, THE PONY, WAS BEATEN
Mark Robarts returned home the day after the scene at
the Albany, considerably relieved in spirit. He now felt that
he might accept the stall without discredit to himself as a clergy-
man in doing so. Indeed, after what Mr. Sowerby had said,
and after Lord Lufton’s assent to it, it would have been mad-
ness, he considered, to decline it. And then, too, Mr. Sowerby’s
promise about the bills was very comfortable to him. After
all, might it not be possible that he might get rid of all these
troubles with no other drawback than that of having to pay
130/. for a horse that was well worth the money ?
On the day after his return he received proper authentic
tidings of his presentation to the prebend. He was, in fact,
already prebendary, or would be as soon as the dean and chapter
had gone through the form of instituting him in his stall. The
income was already his own ; and the house also would be given
up to him in a week’s time — a part of the arrangement with
which he would most willingly have dispensed had it been at
Why Puck, the Pony, was Beaten 201
all possible to do so. His wife congratulated him nicely, with
open affection, and apparent satisfaction at the arrangement.
The enjoyment of one’s own happiness at such windfalls
depends so much on the free and freely expressed enjoyment of
others I Lady Lufton’s congratulations had nearly made him
throw up the whole thing ; but his wife’s smiles re-encouraged
him; and Lucy’s warm and eager joy made him feel quite
delighted with Mr. Sowerby and the Duke of Omnium. And
then that splendid animal. Dandy, came home to the parsonage
stables, much to the delight of the groom and gardener, and of
the assistant stable boy who had been allowed to creep into the
establishment, unawares, as it were, since “ master ” had taken
so keenly to hunting. Hut this satisfaction was not shared in
the drawing-room. The horse was seen on his first journey
round to the sinl)ie gate, and questions were immediately asked.
It was a horse, Mark said, “ which he had bought from Mr.
Sowerby some little time since, with the object of obliging him.
He, Mark, intended to sell him again, as soon as he could do
so judiciously.” This, as I have said above, was not satis-
factory. Neither of the two ladies at Framley parsonage knew
much about horses, or of the manner in which one gentleman
might think it proper to oblige another by purchasing the
superfluities of his stable ; but they did both feel that there
were horses enough in the parsonage stable without Dandy,
and that the purchasing of a hunter with the view of immedi-
ately selling him again, was, to say the least of it, an operation
hardly congenial with the usual tastes and pursuits of a clergy-
man. “ I hope you did not give very much money for him,
Mark,” said Fanny.
“ Not more than I shall get again,” said Mark ; and Fanny
saw from the form of his countenance that she had better not
pursue the subject any further at that moment.
“ I suppose I shall have to go into residence almost immedi-
ately,” said Mark, recurring to the more agreeable subject of
the stall.
“ And shall we all have to go and live at Barchester at once ? ”
asked Lucy.
“ The house will not be furnished, will it, Mark ? ” said his
wife. “ I don’t know how we shall get on.”
** Don’t frighten yourselves. 1 shall take lodgings in Bar-
chester.”
“ And we shall not see you all the time,” said Mrs. Robarts
with dismay. But the prebendary explained that he would be
backwards and forwards at Framley every week, and that in
202 Framley Parsonage
all probability he would only sleep at Barchester on the
Saturdays, and Sundays — and, perhaps, not always then.
“ It does not seem very hard work, that of a prebendary,”
taid Lucy.
“But it is very dignified,” said Fanny. “ Prebendaries are
dignitaries of the Church — are they not, Mark ? ”
“ Decidedly,” said he ; “ and their wives also, by special
canon law. The worst of it is that both of them are obliged to
wear wigs.”
“ Shall you have a hat, Mark, with curly things at the side,
and strings through to hold them up ? ” asked Lucy.
“ I fear that does not come within my perquisites.”
“ Nor a rosette ? Then I shall never believe that you are a
dignitary. Do you mean to say that you will wear a hat like
a common parson — like Mr. Crawley, for instance ? ”
“ Well — I believe I may give a twist to the leaf ; but I am
by no means sure till I shall have consulted the dean in
chapter.”
And thus at the parsonage they talked over the good things
that were coming to them, and endeavoured to forget the new
horse, and the hunting boots that had been used so often during
the last winter, and Lady Lufton’s altered countenance. It
might be that the evils would vanish away, and the good tilings
alone remain to them. It was now the month of April, and the
fields were* beginning to look green, and the wind had got
Itself out of the east and was soft and genial, and the early
spring flowers were showing their bright colours in the parson-
age garden, and all things were sweet and pleasant. This was
a period of the year that was usually dear to Mrs. Robarts.
Her husband was always a better parson when the warm months
came than he had been during the winter. The distant county
friends whom she did not know and of whom she did not
approve, went away when the spring came, leaving their houses
innocent and empty. The parish duty was better attended to,
and perhaps domestic duties also. At such period he was a
pattern parson and a pattern husband, atoning to his own
conscience for past shortcomings by present zeal. And then,
though she had never acknowledged it to herself, the absence
of her dear friend Lady Lufton was perhaps in itself not
disagreeable. Mrs. Robarts did love Lady Lufton heartily ;
but it must be acknowledged of her ladyship, that with all her
good qualities, she was inclined to be masterf^ul. She liked to
rule, and she made people feel that she liked it. Mrs. Robarts
would never have confessed that she laboured under a sense
Why Puck, the Pony, was Beaten 203
of thraldom ; but perhaps she was mouse enough to enjoy the
temporary absence of her kind-hearted cat. When Lady Lufton
was away Mrs. Robarts herself had more play in the parish.
And Mark also was not unhappy, though he did not find it
practicable immediately to turn Dandy into money. Indeed,
just at this moment, when he was a good deal over at Barchester,
going th ongh those deep mysteries and rigid ecclesiastical
examinations which are necessary before a clergyman can
become one of a chapter, Dandy was rather a thorn in his
side. Those wretched bills were to come due early in May,
and before the end of April Sowerby wrote to him saying
that he was doing his utmost to provide for the evil day ;
but that if the price of Dandy could be remitted to him at
onre^ it would greatly facilitate his object. Nothing could be
ijiore different than Mr. Sowerby^s tone about money at
different times. When he wanted to raise the wind, every-
thing was so important ; haste and superhuman efforts, and
men running to and fro with blank acceptances in their
bonds, could alone stave off the crack of doom; but at other
times, when retaliatory applications were made to him, he
could prove with the easiest voice and most jaunty manner
that everything was quite serene. Now, at this period, he
was in that mood of superhuman efforts, and he called loudly
for the hundred and thirty pounds for Dandy. After what
had passed, Mark could not bring himself to say that he would
pay nothing till the bills were safe; and therefore with the
assistance of Mr. Forrest of the Bank, he did remit the price
of Dandy to his friend Sowerby in London.
And Lucy Robarts — we must now say a word of her. We
have seen how, on that occasion, when the world was at her
feet, she had sent her noble suitor away, not only dismissed,
but so dismissed that he might be taught never again to offer
to her the sweet incense of his vows. She had declared to
him plainly that she did not love him and could not love him,
and had thus thrown away not only riches and honour and
high station, but more than that — much worse than that — she
had flung away from her the lover to whose love her warm
heart clung That her love did cling to him, she knew even
then, and owned more thoroughly as soon as he was gone. So
much her pride had done for her, and that strong resolve that
Lady Lufton should not scowl on her and tell her that she had
entrapped her son. I know it will be said of Lord Lufton
himself that, putting aside his peerage and broad acres, and
handsome, sonsy face, he was not worth a girl’s care and love.
204 Framley Parsonage
That will be said because people think that heroes in books
should be so much better than heroes got up for the world's
common wear and tear. I may as well confess that of
absolute, true heroism there was only a moderate admixture in
Lord I.ufton's composition ; but what would the world come
to if none but absolute true heroes were to be thought worthy
of women's love ? What would the men do ? and what — oh !
what would become of the women ? Lucy Robarts in her
heart did not give her dismissed lover credit for much more
heroism than did truly appertain to him ; — did not, perhaps, give
him full credit for a certain amount of heroism which did
really appertain to him ; but, nevertheless, she would have been
very glad to take him could she have done so without wounding
her pride.
That girls should not marry for money we are all agreed.
A lady who can sell herself for a title or an estate, for an
income or a set of family diamonds, treats herself as a farmer
treats his sheep and oxen — makes hardly more of herself, of
her own inner self, in which are comprised a mind and soul,
than the poor wretch of her own sex who earns her bread in
the lowest stage of degradation. But a title, and an estate,
and an income, are matters which will weigh in the balance
with all Eve's daughters — as they do with all Adam's sons.
Pride of place, and the power of living well in front of the
world's eyCf are dear to us all ; — are, doubtless, intended to be
dear. Only in acknowledging so much, let us remember that
there are prices at which these good things may be too costly.
Therefore, being desirous, too, of telling the truth in this
matter, I must confess that J^ucy did speculate with some
regret on what it would have been to be Lady Lufton. To
have been the wife of such a man, the owner of such a heart,
the mistress of such a destiny — what more or what better could
the world have done for her ? And now she had thrown all
that aside because she \^ould not endure that Lady Lufton
should call her a scheming, artful girl ! Actuated by that fear
she had repulsed him with a falsehood, though the matter was
one on which it was so terribly expedient that she should tell
the truth. And yet she was cheerful with her brother and
sister-in-law. It was when she was quite alone, at night in her
own room, or in her solitary walks, that a single silent tear
would gather in the corner of her eye and gradually moisten
her eyelids. “ She never told her love,” nor did she allow
concealment to **feed on her damask cheek.” In all her
employments, in her ways about the house, and her accustomed
Why Puck, the Pony, was Beaten 205
quiet miith, she was the same as ever. In this she showed
the peculiar strength which God had given her. But not the
less did she in truth mourn for her lost love and spoiled am-
bition. “We are going to drive over to Hogglestock this
morning,” Fanny said one day at breakfast. “ I suppose, Mark,
you won^t go with us ? ”
“ Well, no ; I think not- The pony carriage is wretched for
three.”
Oh, as for that, I should have thought the new horse might
have been able to carry you as far as that. I heard you say
you wanted to see Mr. Crawley.”
“So I do ; and the new horse, as you call him, shall carry
me there to-morrow. Will you say that I’ll be over about
twelve o’clock ? ”
“ You had K^ttcr say earlier, as he is always out about the
parish.”
“ Very well, say eleven. It is parish business about which I
am going, so it need not irk his conscience to stay in for
me.
“ Well, Lucy, we must drive ourselves, that’s all. You shall
be charioteer going, and then we’ll change coming back.” To
all which Lucy agreed, and as soon as their work in the school
was over they started. Not a word had been spoken between
them about Lord Lufton since that evening, now more than a
month ago, on which they had been walking together in the
garden. Lucy had so demeaned herself on that occasion as
to make her sister-in-law quite sure that there had been no
love passages up to that time ; and nothing had since occurred
which had created any susjjicion in Mrs, Robarts’ mind. She
had seen at once that all the close intimacy between them was
over, and thought that everything was as it should be.
“ Do you know, I have an idea,” she said in the pony
carriage that day, “ that Lord Lufton will marry Griselda
Grantly.” Lucy could not refrain from giving a little check at
the reins which she was holding, and she felt that the blood
rushed quickly to her heart. But she did not betray herself.
“ Perhaps he may,” she said, and then gave the pony a little
touch with her whip.
“• Oh, Lucy, I won't have Puck beaten. He was going very
nicely.”
“ I beg Puck’s pardon. But you see when one is trusted
with a whip one feels such a longing to use it.”
“ Oh, but you should keep it still. I feel almost certain that
Lady Lufton would like such a match.”
2o6 Framley Parsonage
“ I daresay she might. Miss Grantly will have a large for-
tune, I believe.”
“ It is not that altogether : but she is the sort of young lady
that Lady Lufton likes. She is ladylike and very beauti-
ful ”
“Come, Fanny!**
“ I really think she is ; not what I should call lovely, you
know, but very beautiful. And then she is quiet and reserved ;
she does not require excitement, and I am sure is conscien-
tious in the performance of her duties.”
“Very conscientious, I have no doubt,” said Lucy, with
something like a sneer in her tone. “ But the question, I
suppose, is, whether Lord Lufton likes her.”
“ I think he does, — in a sort of way. He did not talk to
her so much as he did to you ”
“ Ah ! that was all Lady Lufton’s fault, because she didn’t
have him properly labelled.”
“ There does not seem to have been much harm done ? ”
“ Oh 1 by God’s mercy, very little. As for me, I shall get
over it in three or four years I don’t doubt — that’s if I can get
ass’s milk and change of air,”
“We’ll take you to Barchester for that. But as I was
saying, I really do think l.ord Lufton likes Griselda Grantly.”
“ I'hen I really do think that he has uncommon b.id taste,”
said Lucyf with a reality in her voice differing much from the
tone of banter she had hitherto used.
“ What, Lucy 1 ” said her sister-in-law, looking at her.
“ Then I fear we shall really want the ass’s milk.”
“ Perhaps, considering my position, I ought to know nothing
of Lord Lufton, for you say that it is very dangerous for
young ladies to know young gentlemen. But I do know
enough of him to understand that he ought not to like such
a girl as Griselda Grantly. He ought to know that she is
a mere automaton, cold, lifeless, spiritless, and even vapid.
There is, I believe, nothing in her mentally, whatever may
be her moral excellences. To me she is more absolutely like
a statue than any other human being I ever saw. To sit still
and be admired is all that she desires ; and if she cannot get
that, to sit still and not be admired would almost suffice for
her. I do not worship Lady Lufton as you do ; but I think
quite well enough of her to wonder that she should choose
such a girl ^ that for her son’s wufe. That she does wish it 1
do not doubt. But I shall indeed be surprised if he wishes it
also.” And then as she finished her speech, Lucy again
Why Puck, the Pony, was Beaten 207
flogged the pony. This she did in vexation, because she felt
that the tell-tale blood had suflused her face. “ Why, Lucy,
if he were your brother you could not be more eager about it.**
“No, I could not. He is the only man friend with whom I
was ever intimate, and I cannot bear to think that he should
throw himself away. It*s horridly improper to care about
such a thing, I have no doubt.**
“ I think we might acknowledge that if he and his mother
are both satisfied, we may be satisfied also.”
“ I shall not be satisfied. It’s no use your looking at me,
Fanny. You will make me talk of it, and I won*t tell a lie on
the subject. I do like Lord Lufton very much ; and I do dis-
like Gnselda Grantly almost as much. Therefore I shall not
be satisfied if they become man and wife. However, I do not
suppose that either of them will ask my consent; nor is it
probable that i^dy Lufton will do so.” And then they went
on for perhaps a quarter of a mile without speaking.
“ I’oor Puck I ** at last Lucy said. “He shan’t be whipped
any more, shall he, because Miss Grantly looks like a statue?
And, Fanny, don’t tell Mark to put me into a lunatic asylum.
I also know a hawk from a heron, and that’s why I don’t like
to see such a very unfitting marriage.” There was then
nothing more said on the subject, and in two minutes they
arrived at the house of the Hogglestock clergyman. Mrs.
Crawley had brought two children with her when she came
from the Cornish curacy to Hogglestock, and two other babies
had been added to her cares since then. One of these was
now ill with croup, and it was with the object of offering to
the mother some comfort and solace, that the present visit was
made. The two ladies got down from their carriage, having
obtained the services of a boy to hold Puck, and soon found
themselves in Mrs. Crawley’s single sitting-room. She was
sitting there with her foot on the board of a child’s cradle,
rocking it, while an infant about three months old was lying in
her lap. For the elder one, who was the sufferer, had in her
illness usurped the baby’s place. Two other children, con-
siderably older, were also in the room. The eldest was a girl,
perhaps nine years of age, and the other a boy three years her
junipr. These were standing at their father’s elbow, who was
studiously endeavouring to initiate them in the early mysteries
of grammar. To tell the truth Mrs. Robarts would much
have preferred that Mr. Crawley had not been there, for she
had with her and about her certain contraband articles, pre-
sents for the children, as they were to be called, but in truth
2 o 8 Framley Parsonage
relief for that poor, much-tasked mother, which they knew it
would be impossible to introduce in Mr. Crawley’s presence.
She, as we have said, was not quite so gaunt, not altogether
so haggard as in the latter of those dreadful Cornish days.
Lady Lufton and Mrs. Arabin between them, and the scanty
comfort of their improved, though still wretched income, had
done something towards bringing her back to the world in
which she had lived in the soft days of her childhood. But
even the liberal stipend of a hundred and thirty pounds a-
year — liberal according to the scale by which the incomes of
clergymen in some of our new districts are now apportioned —
would not admit of a gentleman with his wife and four children
living with the ordinary comforts of an artisan’s family. As re-
gards the mere eating and drinking, the amounts of butcher’s
meat and tea and butter, they of course were used in quantities
which any artisan would have regarded as compatible only
with demi-starvation. Better clothing for her children was
necessary, and better clothing for him. As for her own
raiment, the wives of few artisans would have been content
to put up with Mrs. Crawley's best gown. The stuff of which
it was made had been paid for by her mother when she with
much difficulty bestowed upon her daughter her modest
wedding trousseau,
Lucy had never seen Mrs. Crawley. These visits to Hoggle-
stock were not frequent, and had generally been made by
Lady Luflon and Mrs. Robarts together. It was known that
they were distasteful to Mr. Crawley, who felt a savage satis-
faction in being left to himself It may almost be said of him
that he felt angry with those who relieved him, and he had
certainly never as yet forgiven the Dean of Barchester for
paying his debts. The dean had also given him his present
living ; and consequently his old friend was not now so dear
to him as when in old days he would come down to that farm-
house, almost as penniless as the curate himself. Then they
would walk together for hours along the rock-bound shore,
listening to the waves, discussing deep polemical mysteries,
sometimes with hot fury, then again with tender, loving charity,
but always with a mutual acknowledgment of each other’s truth.
Now they lived comparatively near together, but no oppor-
tunities arose for such discussions. At any rate once a quarter
Mr. Crawley was pressed by his old friend to visit him at the
deanery, and Dr. Arabin had promised that no one else should
be in the house if Mr. Crawley objected to society. But this
was not what he wanted. The finery and grandeur of the
Hogglestock Parsonage 209
deanery, and the comfort of that warm, snug library, would
silence him at once. Why did not Dr. Arabin come out there
to Hogglestock, and tramp with him through the dirty lanes as
they used to tramp ? Then he could have enjoyed himself ;
then he could have talked ; then old days would have come
back to them. But now ! “Arabin always rides on a sleek,
fine horse, now-a-days,” he once said to his wife with a sneer.
His poverty had been so terrible to himself that it w’as not in
his heart to love a rich friend.
CHAPTER XXII
HOGGLESTOCK PARSOPJAGE
At the end of the chapter, we left Lucy Robarts waiting
for an introduction to Mrs, Crawley, who was sitting with one
baby in her lap while she was rocking another who lay in a
cradle at her feet. Mr. Crawley, in the meanwhile, had risen
from his seat with his finger between the leaves of an old
grammar out of which he had been teaching his two elder
children. The whole Crawley family was thus before them
when Mrs. Rubarts and Lucy entered the sitting-room. “ This
is my sister-in-law, Lucy,” said Mrs. Robarts. “ Pray don’t
move now, Mrs. Crawley ; or if you do, let me take baby.”
And she put out her arms and took the infant into them,
making him (piite at home there ; for she had work of this
kind of her own, at home, which she by no means neglected,
though the attendance of nurses was more plentiful with her
than at Hogglestock. Mrs. Crawley did get up, and told Lucy
that she was glad to see her, and Mr. Crawley came forward,
grammar in hand, looking humble and meek. Could we have
looked into the innermost spirit of him and his life’s partner,
we should have seen that mixed with the pride of his poverty
there was some feeling of disgrace that he w^as poor, but that
with her, regarding this matter, there was neither pride nor
sliame. The realities of life had become so stern to her that
the outwaid aspects of them were as nothing. She would have
liked a new gown because it would have been useful ; but it
would have been nothing to her if all the county knew that
the one in which she went to church had been turned three
times. It galled him, however, to think that he and his were
so poorly dressed. “ I am afraid you can hardly find a chair,
Miss Robarts,” said Mr. Crawley.
“ Oh, yes, there is nothing here but this young gentleman’s
210 Framley Parsonage
library,” said I^ucy, moving a pile of ragged, coverless books
on to the table. “ I hope he'll forgive me for moving them."
“They are not Bob’s, — at least, not the most of them, — but
mine,” said the girl.
“ But some of them are mine," said the boy ; “ ain’t they^
Grace ? ”
“ And are you a great scholar ? ” said Lucy, drawing
child to her.
“ I don't know,” said Grace, with a sheepish face. ” I am
in Greek Delectus and the irregular verbs.”
“ Greek Delectus and the irregular verbs ! ” And Lucy put
up her hands with astonishment.
“ And she knows an ode of Horace all by heart,” said
Bob.
“ An ode of Horace ! ” said Lucy, still holding the young
shamefaced female prodigy close to her knees.
“ It is all that I can give them,” said Mr. Crawley, apolo-
getically. “ A little scholarship is the only fortune that has
come in my way, and 1 endeavour to share that with my
children."
“I believe men say that it is the best fortune any of us can,
have," said Lucy, thinking, however, in her own mind, thatf
Horace and the irregular Greek verbs savoured too much of
precocious forcing in a young lady of nine years old. But,
nevertheless, Grace was a pretty, simple-looking girl, and clung
to her ally closely, and seemed to like being fondled. So that
Lucy anxiously wished that Mr. Crawley could be got rid of
and the presents produced.
“ I hope you have left Mr. Robarts quite well,” said
Mr. Crawley, with a stiff, ceremonial voice, differing very much
from that in which he had so energetically addressed his
brother clergyman when they were alone together in the study
at Framley. “ He is quite well, thank you. 1 suppose you
have heard of his good fortune ? "
“ Ves ; I have heard of it," said Mr. Crawley, gravely. “ I
hope that his promotion may tend in every way to his
advantage here and hereafter." It seemed, however, to be
manifest from the manner in which he expressed his kind
wishes, that his hopes and expectations did not go hand-in«
hand together.
“ By-the-by, he desired us to say that he will call here to-
morrow ; at about eleven, didn’t he say, Fanny ? ”
“ Yes ; he wishes to see you about some parish business,
1 think," said Mrs. Robarts, looking up for a moment from the
Hogglestock Parsonage 21 1
e xious discussion in \^hirh she was alreidy engaged \\ith
rs Crawlev on nursery matters
“Pra} ttll him,’ said Mr Crawley, “that I shall be happy
||4 see him , though, perhaps, now that new duties have been
Ipown upon him, it will be better that I should \ sit him at
^niley ”
JH His n* duties do not disturb him much as >et,” said
iJcy “ And his riding over here vill be no trouble to him ”
“ Yts , there he has the advantage over me I anfoitunately
J livc no horse ” And then Lucy begin petting the little boy,
hd bv degrees slipped a small bag of gingerbread nuts out of
her muff into his hinds She hid not the patience nei^essiry
for waiting, as had her sister in lai^ The tioy took the bag,
peeped into it, and then looked up into her face
“ What IS that, Lo^ r d Mi Crawh y
“ Gingei bread,” faltered Bobby, feeling that a sin had been
committed, though, probably, feeling also that he himself could
hardly as yet be accounted as deeply guilty
“ Miss Kobirts,’ said the fat’ li, ‘‘we are very much ol ligcd
lo }ou , bui our children are hardly used to such things ”
“ I am a lad} i\ith a weak mind, Mr Ciawley, and alwavs
fcrry things of this sort about with me when I go to visit
fiiildren, so you must forgive me, ard allow }Our little boy to
accept the m ’
\ “Oh, ctitiinly Bob, my child, give the bag to your
TOmma, and she will h t you anil Cjrace have the n, one at a
” Ano then the bag in a solemn manner wis eairied
^ei to their mothei, who, taking it from her son’s hands, laid
4t 1 1 ^h on a bookshelf
“And not on^* now?” said Lucy Robarts, very p teously
1) »n’t be so bird, Mr Crawley, — not upon them, but upon
tttie May I not learn whether they are good of their kind ? ”
“ I am suie they are very good, but 1 think their mamma
Will piefer their bung put by for the piesent ” This was very
disc ouragmg to Lucy If one small bag of gmgerbr ad nuts
created so great a difficulty, how was she to dispose ot the pot
of guava Jelly and bo\ of bonbons, whieh were s ill in her
muff, or how i str»l)ute the picket of oranges widi which the
»ny csiiiage w s ladin* And theie w is jelly fur the sick
ftild, and chicken hrutii, which was, indeed, another jelly ,
ml, to tell the truth ojx-nly, theie was also a joint of fresh pork
and a bisket of eggs from the 1 lamley parsonage farmyard,
which Mis Robarts was lo introduce, should she find herself
capable of doing so, but which would certainly be cast out
212 Framley Parsonage
with utter scorn by Mr. Crawley, if tendered in his immediate
presence. There had also been a suggestion as to adding tw<
or three bottles of port ; but the courage of the ladies har-
failed them on that head, and the wine was not now added tf
their difficulties. Lucy found it very difficult to keep up t»
conversation with Mr. Crawley — the more so, as Mrs. Robarj
and Mrs. Crawley presently withdrew into a bedroom, takw^
the two younger children with them. “ How unlucky,” tbou^-
Lucy, “ that she has not got my muff with her I ” But thf-
muff lay in her lap, ponderous with its rich enclosures.
“ I suppose you will live in Barchester for a portion of the
year now ? ” said Mr. Crawley.
“ I really do not know as yet ; Mark talks of taking lodgings
for his first month’s residence.”
“ But he will have the house, wdll he not? ”
“ Oh, yes ; I suppose so.”
“ I fear he will find it interfere with his own parish — with
his general utility there : the schools, for instance.”
“ Mark thinks that, as he is so near, he need not be much
absent from Framley, even during his residence. And then
Lady Lufton is so good about the schools.”
“ Ah ! yes ; but Lady Lufton is not a clergyman, Mis
Robarts.” It was on Lucy’s tongue to say that her ladyshij
was pretty nearly as bad, but she stopped herself. At this
moment Providence sent great relief to Miss Robarts in tlv
shape of Mrs. Crawley’s red-armed maid-of-all-work, whe
walking up to her master, whispered into his car that he w?
wanted. It was the time of day at which his attendance was
always required in his parish school; and that attendance
being so punctually given, those who wanted him looked for him
there at this hour, and if he were absent, did not scruple to
send for him. “ Miss Robarts, I am afraid you must excuse
me,” said he, getting up and taking his hat and stick. Luc
begged that she might not be at all in the way, and alread
began to speculate how she might best unload her treasures.
“Will you make my compliments to Mrs. Robarts, and say
that I am sorry to miss the pleasure of wishing her good-bye '
But I shall probably see her as she passes the school-house,
And then, stick in hand, he walked forth, and Lucy fancie
that Bobby’s eyes immediately rested on the bag of gingei
bread-nuts.
“Bob, ’’said she, almost in a whisp)er, “do you like sug
plums ? ”
“Very much, indeed,” said Bob, with exceeding gravity, a*
Hogglestock Parsonage 213
with his eye upon the window to see whether his father had
mssed.
“ Then come here,” said Lucy. But as she spoke the door
tain opened, and Mr. Crawley reappeared. “ 1 have left a
jpok behind me,” he said ; and coming back through the
^om, he took up the well-worn prayer-book which accompanied
in all his wanderings through the parish. Bobby, when
9 saw his father, had retreated a few steps back, as also did
irace, who, to confess the truth, had been attracted by the
;pund of sugar-plums, in spite of the irregular verbs. And
Lucy withdrew her hand from her muff, and looked guilty.
Was she not deceiving the good man — nay, teaching his own
children to deceive him ? But there are men made of surh stuff
that an angel could hardly live with them without some deceit.
Papa’s gone now ” w’llipered Bobby; “ I saw him turn round
the corner.” lie, at any rate, had learned his lesson — as it was
natural that he should do. Some one else, also, had learned
that papa was gone ; for while Bob and Grace w’ere still count-
ing the big lumps of sugar-candy, each employed the while for
inward solace with an inch of barley-sugar, the front-door
opened, and a big basket, and a bundle done up in a kitchen-
^.loth, made suneptitious entrance into the house, and were
|uickly unpacked by Mrs. Robarts herself on the table in Mrs.
>awley’s bedioom.
“ I did venture to bring them,” said Fanny, with a look of
hamc, “for 1 know how a sick child occupies the whole
ouse.”
' ‘“Ah! rny friend,” said Mis. Crawley, taking hold of Mrs.
Robarts’ arm and looking into her face, “ that sort of shame is
•jver with me. God has tried us with want, and for my
children’s sake I am glad of such relief.”
“ But will he be angry ? ”
“ I will manage it. Dear Mrs. Robarts, you must not be
urprised at him. His lot is sometimes very hard to bear :
.uch things are so much worse for a man than for a woman.”
Fanny was not quite prepared to admit this in her own heart,
but she made no reply on that head. “ I am sure I hoiie we
nay be able to be of use to you,” she said, “ if you will only
■)ok upon me as an old friend, and write to me if you want
le.* I hesitate to come frequently for fear that 1 should offend
And then, by degrees, there was confidence between
*m, and the poverty-stricken helpmate of the perpetual curate
IS able to speak of the weight of her burden to the well-to-do
ung wife of the Barchester prebendary. “ It was hard,” the
214 Framley Parsonage
former said, ‘‘to feel herself so different from the wives oj
other clergymen around her — ^to know that they lived softlj
while she, with all the work of her hands, and unceasiiw
struggle of her energies, could hardly manage to place wholS
some food before her husband and children. It was a terrih|l
thing — a grievous thing to think of, that all the work of hfl
mind should be given up to such subjects as these. ]^l
nevertheless, she could bear it,” she said, **as long as he
carry himself like a man, and face his lot boldly before thft
world.” And then she told how he had been better there
Hogglestock than in their former residence down in CornwaSB
and in warm language she expressed her thanks to the frienJ
who had done so much for them. “ Mrs. Arabin told me thalJ
she was so anxious you should go to them,” said Mrs;
Robarts.
“ Ah, yes ; but that, I fear, is impossible. The childreni*
you know, Mrs. Robarts.”
“ I would take care of two of them for you.”
“ Oh, no ; I could not punish you for your goodness in tha
way. But he would not go. He could go and leave me a
home. Sometimes 1 have thought that it might be so, and
have done all in my piower to persuade him. I have tol
him that if he could mix once more with the world, with th
clerical world, you know, that he would be better fitted fo
the performance of his own duties. But he answers m
angrily, that it is impossible — that his coat is not fit for th
dean’s table,” and Mrs. Crawley almost blushed as she spok
of such a reason.
“What! with an old friend like Dr. Arabin? Surely thai
must be nonsense.”
“ I know that it is. The dean would be glad to see him
with any coat. But the fact is that he cannot bear to enter th^
house of a rich man unless his duty calls him there.”
“ But surely that is a mistake ? ”
“It is a mistake. But what can 1 do? I fear that he
regards the rich as his enemies. He is pining for the solace
of some friend to whom he could talk — for some equal, with
a mind educated like his own, to whose thoughts he could
listen, and to whom he could speak his own thoughts. B^
such a friend must be equal, not only in mind, but in purs^
and where can he ever find such a man as that ? ”
“ But you may get better preferment.”
“Ah, no; and if he did, we are hardly tit for it now. If
I could think that I could educate my children; if 1 coul4n
Hogglestock Parsonage 215
only do something for my poor Grace ” In answer to this
Mrs. Robarts said a word or two, but not much. She resolved,
however, that if she could get her husband’s leave, something
should be done for Grace. Would it not be a good work?
and was it not incumbent on her to make some kindly use
all the goods with which Providence had blessed herself?
And then they went back to the sitting-room, each again with
a young child in her arms, Mrs. Crawley having stowed away
in the kitchen the chicken broth and the leg of pork and the
supply of eggs. Lucy had been engaged the while with the
children, and when the two married ladies entered, they found
that a shop had been opened at which all manner of luxuries
were being readily sold and purchased at marvellously easy
prices; the guava jelly was there, and the oranges, and the
sugar-plums, red .^nd yellow and striped ; and, moreover, the
gingerbread had been tak?n down in the audacity of their
commercial speculations, and the nuts were spread out upon
a board, behind which Lucy stood as shop-girl, disposing of
them for kisses. “Mamma, mamma,” said Bobby, running
up to his mother, “ you must buy something of her,” and he
pointed with his fingers at the shop-girl. “You must give her
two kisses for that heap of barley-sugar.” Looking at Bobby’s
mouth at the time, one would have said that his kisses might
be dispensed with.
When they were again in the pony carriage behind the
impatient Puck, and were well away from the door, Fanny
was the first to speak. “ How very different those two are,”
ihe said ; “ different in their minds and in their spirit ! ”
“ But how much higher toned is her mind than his ! How
iweak he is in many things, and how strong she is in every-
thing ! How false is his pride, and how false his shame ! ”
“But we must remember what he has to bear. It is not
every one that can endure such a life as his without false pride
and false shame.”
“ But she has neither,” said Lucy.
“ Because you have one hero in a family, does that give you
aright to expect another?” said Mrs. Robarts. “Of all my
own acquaintance, Mrs. Crawley, I think, comes nearest to
heroism.” And then they passed by the Hogglestock school,
and Mr. Crawley, when he heard the noise of the wheels, came
out. “You have been very kind,” said he, “to remain so
long with my poor wife.”
“ We had a great many things to talk about, after you went.”
“ It is very kind of you, for she does not often see a friend,
H x8i
2i6 Framley Parsonage
now-a-days. Will you have the goodness lo tell Mr. Robarts
that I shall be here at the school, at eleven o’clock to-morrow ? "
And then he bowed, taking off his hat to them, and they
drove on.
“ If he really does care about her comfort, I shall not think
so badly of him,”* said Lucy.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE TRIUMPH OF THE GIANTS
And now about the end of April news arrived almost simul-
taneously in all quarters of the habitable globe that was terrible
in its import to one of the chief persons of our history ; —
some may think to the chief person in it. All high parlia
mentary people will doubtless so think, and the wives anc
daughters of such. The Titans warring against the Gods ha(
been for awhile successful. Typhoeus and Mimas, Porphyrioi
and Rhoecus, the giant brood of old, steeped in ignorance am
wedded to corruption, had scaled the heights of Olympus'
assisted by that audacious dinger of deadly ponderous missiles
who stands ever ready armed with his terrific sling — Supple-
house, the Enceladus of the press. And in this universal
cataclasm of the starry councils, what could a poor Diana do,
Diana of the Petty Bag, but abandon her pride of place tr
some rude Orion? In other words, the ministry had been
compelled to resign, and with them Mr. Harold Smith. “ Anc
so poor Plarold is out, before he has well tasted the sweets o
office,” said Sowerby, writing to his friend the parson ; “am
as far as I know, the only piece of church patronage whic
has fallen in the way of the ministry since he joined it, ha
made its way down to Framley — to my great joy and content
ment.” But it hardly tended to Mark’s joy and contentmen
on the same subject that he should be so often reminded o
the benefit conferred upon him.
Terrible was this break-down of the ministry, and especially
to Harold Smith, who to the last had had confidence in that
theory of new blood. He could hardly believe that a large
majority of the House should vote against a government which
he had only just joined. “ If we are to go on in this way,” hi
said to his young friend Green Walker, “ the Queen’s govern-
ment cannot be carried on.” That alleged difficulty as tc
carrying on the Queen’s government has been frequcntl)
mooted in late years since a certain great man first introducec
The Triumph of the Giants 217
the idea. Nevertheless, the Qucen^s government is carried on,
and the propensity and aptitude of men for this work seems to
be not at all on the decrease. If we have but few young states-
men, it is because the old stagers are so fond of the rattle of
their harness.
“ I really do not see how the Queen’s government is to be
carried on,” said Harold Smith to Green AValker, standing in
a corner of one of the lobbies of the House of Commons on
the first of those days of awful interest, in which the Queen
was sending for one crack statesman after another ; and some
anxious men were beginning to doubt whether or no we should,
‘ ’n truth, be able to obtain the blessing of another cabinet. The
i^ods had all vanished from their places. Would the giants be
J^ood enough to do anything for us or no? 'There were men
[ vho seemed to tiimk t hat the giants would refuse to do any-
hing for us. “ The House will now be adjourned over till
/londay, and I would not be in her Majesty’s shoes for
omething,” said Mr. Harold Smith.
. ** By Jove ! no,” said Green Walker, who in these days was
* stanch Harold Smithian, having felt a pride in joining him-
\.elf on as a substantial support to a cabinet minister. Had he
contented himself with being merely a Brockite, he would have
counted as nobody. “By Jove! no,” and Green Walker opened
his eyes and shook his head, as he thought of the perilous con-
dition in which her Majesty must be placed. ” I happen to
know that Lord won’t join them unless he has the Foreign
Office,” and he mentioned some hundred-handed Gyas sup-
l )osed to be of the utmost importance to the ctmnsels of the
' '^itans.
’ “And that, of course, is impossible. I don’t see wha*" on
:arth they are lo do. 'There’s Sidonia ; they do say that he’s
•naking some ilifficulty now.” Now Sidonia 'was another giant,
supposed to bo very powerful.
“ We all know that the Queen won’t see him,” said Green
Walker, who, being a member of Parliament for the Crewe
Junction, and nephew to Lady Hartletop, of course had per-
fectly correct means of ascertaining what the Queen would do,
rind what she would not.
“The fact is,” said Harold Smith, recurring again to his own
situation as an ejticted god, “ that the House docs not in the
least understand what it is about; — doesn’t know what it wants.
The question I should like to ask them is this : do they intend
hat the Queen shall have a government, or do they not ? Are
hey prepared to support such men as Sidonia and Lord De
2i8 Framley Parsonage
Terrier ? If so, I am their obedient humble servant ; but I
shall be very much surprised, that’s all.” Lord De Terrier was
at this time recognized by all men as the leader of the giants.
“ And so shall I, deucedly surprised. They can’t do it, you
know. There are the Manchester men. I ought to know
something about them down in my country ; and I say
they can’t support Lord De Terrier. It wouldn’t be
natural.”
“ Natural ! Human nature has come to an end, I think,”
said Harold Smith, who could hardly understand that the
world should conspire to throw over a government which he
had joined, and that, too, before the world had waited to see
how much he would do for it; “the fact is this, Walker, we ,
have no longer among us any strong feeling of party.”
“ No, not a d ,” said Green Walker, who was very i
energetic in his present political aspirations.
“And till we can recover that, we shall never be able to
have a government firm-seated and sure-handed. Nobody can
count on men from one week to another. The very members;
who in one month place a minister in power, are the very first
to vote against him in the next.”
“We must put a stop to that sort of thing, otherwise we shall
never do any good.”
“ I don’t mean to deny that Brock was wrong with reference
to Lord Hrittleback. I think that he was wrong, and I said so
all through. But, heavens on earth ! ” and instead of
completing his speech Harold Smith turned aw^ay his head, j
and struck his hands together in token of his astonishment slU
the fatuity of the age. What he probably meant to express >
was this : that if such a good deed as that late appointment
made at the Petty Bag Office were not held sufficient to atone
for that other evil deed to which he had alluded, there would
be an end of all justice in sublunary matters. Was no offence
to be forgiven, even when so great virtue had been displayed?
“ I attribute it all to Supplehouse,” said Green Walker, trying
to console his friend.
“ Yes,” said Harold Smith, now verging on the bounds of
parliamentary eloquence, although he still spoke with bated
breath, and to one solitary hearer. “Yes; we are becoming
the slaves of a mercenary and irresponsible press — of one
single newspaper. There is a man endowed with no great
talent, enjoying no public confidence, untrusted as a politician,
and unheard of even as a writer by the world at large, and yet,
because he is on the staff of the Jupiter^ he is able to overturn
The Triumph of the Giants 219
the government and throw the whole country into dismay. It
is astonishing to me that a man like Lord Brock should allow
himself to he so timid.” And nevertheless it was not yet a
month since Harold Smith had been counselling with Supple-
house how a series of strong articles in the Jupiter^ togethei
with the expected support of the Manchester men, might
probably be effective in hurling the minister from his seat.
But at that time the minister had not revigoratcd himself with
young blood. “How the Queen's government is to be carried on,
that is the question now,” Harold Smith repeated. A difficulty
which had not caused him much dismay at that period, about
a month since, to which we have alluded. At this moment
Sowerby and Supplehouse together joined them, having come
out of the House, in which some unimportant business had
been completed after tne minister’s notice of adjournment.
“ Well, Harold,” said Sowerby, “ what do you say to your
governor’s statement ? ”
“ I have nothing to say to it,” said Harold Smith, looking
up very solemnly from undei the penthouse of his hat, and,
perhaps, rather savagely. Sowerby had supported the govern-
ment at the late crisis ; but why was he now seen herding with
such a one as Supplehouse ?
“ He did it pretty well, I think,” said Sowerby.
“Very well, indeed,’* said Supplehouse ; “ as he always does
those sort of things. No man makes so good an explanation
of circumstances, or comes out with so telling a personal
statement. He ought to keep himself in reserve for those
sort of things.”
“ And who in the meantime is to carry on the Queen’s
government?” said Harold Smith, looking very stern.
“ That should be left to men of lesser mark,” said he of the
Jupiter. “The points as to which one really listens to a
minister, the subjects about which men really care, are always
personal. How many of us are truly interested as to the best
mode of governing India? But in a question touching the
character of a prime minister we all muster together like bees
round a sounding cymbal.”
“ That arises from envy, malice, and all uncharitableness,"
said Harold Smith.
“Yes; and from picking and stealing, evil speaking, lying,
and slandering,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“ We are so prone to desire and covet other men’s places,”
said Supplehouse.
“Some men are so," said Sowerby; “but it is the evil
220 P'ramley Parsonage
speaking, lying, and slandering, which does the mischief. Is
it not, Harold ? ”
“ And in the meantime how is the Queen's government to
be carried on ? ” said Mr. Green Walker. On the following
morning it was known that Lord De Terrier was with the
Queen at Buckingham Palace, and at about twelve a list of the
new ministry was published, which must have been in the
highest degree satisfactory to the whole brood of giants. Every
son of Tellus was included in it, as were also very many of the
daughters. But then, late in the afternoon. Lord Brock was
again summoned to the palace, and it was thought in the
West End among the clubs that the gods had again a chance.
“ If only,” said the Purist^ an evening paper which was sup-
posed to be very much in the interest of Mr. Harold Smith,
“ if only Lord Brock can have the wisdom to place the right
men in the right places. It was only the other day that he
introduced Mr. Smith into his government. That this was a
step in the right direction every one has acknowledged, though
unfortunately it was made too late to prevent the disturbance
which has since occurred. It now appears probable that his
lordship will again have an opportunity of selecting a list of
statesmen with the view of carrying on the Queen's govern-
ment ; and it is to be hoped that such men as Mr. Smith may
be placed in situations in which their talents, industry, and
acknowledged official aptitudes, may be of permanent service
to the country.” Supplehouse, when he read this at the club
with Mr. Sowerby at his elbow, declared that the style was too
well marked to leave any doubt as to the author ; but we our-
selves are not inclined to think that Mr. Harold Smith wrote
the article himself, although it may be probable that he saw it
in type. But the Jupiter the next morning settled the whole
question, and made it known to the world that, in spite of all
the sendings and resendings. Lord Brock and the gods were
permanently out, and Lord De Terrier and the giants per-
manently in. That fractious giant who would only go to the
Foreign Office, had, in fact, gone to some sphere of much less
important duty, and Sidonia, in spite of the whispered dislike
of an illustrious personage, opened the campaign with all the
full appanages of a giant of the highest standing. “ We hope,”
said the Jupiter^ “ that Lord Brock may not yet be too old to
take a lesson. If so, the present decision of the House of
Commons,* and we may say of the country also, may teach
him not to put his trust in such princes as Lord Brittleback,
or such broken reeds as Mr. Harold Smith.” Now this parting
The Triumph of the Giants 221
blow we always thought to be exceedingly unkind, and alto-
gether unnecessary, on the part of Mr. Supplehouse.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Harold, when she first met Miss
Dunstable after the catastrophe was known, “ how am I
possibly to endure this degradation?” And she put her deeply-
laced handkerchief up to her eyes.
“ Christian resignation,” suggested Miss Dunstable.
“ Fiddlestick ! ” said Mrs. Harold Smith. “ You millionaires
always talk of Christian resignation, because you never are
called on to resign anything. If I had any Christian resig-
nation, I shouldn’t have cared for such pomps and vanities.
Think of it, my dear ; a cabinet minister’s wife for only three
weeks ! ”
“flow does poor Mr. Smith endure it?”
“What? Harold? He only lives on the hope of ven-
geance. When he has put an end to Mr. Supplehouse, he will
be content to die.” And then there were further explanations
in both houses of Parliament, which were altogether satis-
factory. 'riie high-bred, ct'urteous giants assured the gods
that they had piled Pelion on Ossa and thus climbed up into
power, very much in opposition to their own goodwills ; for
they, the giants themselves, preferred the sweets of dignified
retirement. But the voice of the people had been too strong
for them ; the effort had been made, not by themselves, but by
others, who weie determined that the giants should be at the
head of affairs. Indeed, the spirit of the times was so clearly
in favour of giants that there had been no alternative. So
said Briareus to the Lords, and Orion to the Commons. And
then the gods were absolutely happy in ceding their places ;
and so far were they from any uncelestial envy or malice
which might not be divine, that they promised to give the
giants all the assistance in their power in carrying on the work
of government ; upon which the giants declared how deeply
indebted they would be for such valuable counsel and friendly
assistance. All this was delightful in the extreme ; but not the
less did ordinary men seem to expect that the usual battle
would go on in the old customary way. It is easy to love
one’s enemy when one is making fine speeches ; but so
difficult to do so in the actual everyday work of life. But
there was and always has been this peculiar good point about
the giants-*— that they are never too proud to follow in the
footsteps of the gods. If the gods, deliberating painfully to-
gether, have elaborated any skilful project, the giants are
always willing to adopt it as their own, not treating the bantling
222
Framley Parsonage
as a foster child, but praising it and pushing it so that men
should regard it as the undoubted offspring of their own brains.
Now just at this time there had been a plan much thought of
for increasing the number of the bishops. Good active bishops
were very desirable, and there was a strong feeling among
certain excellent churchmen that there could hardly be too
many of them. Lord Brock had his measure cut and dry.
There should be a bishop of Westminster to share the Her-
culean toils of the metropolitan prelate, and another up in the
North to christianize the mining interests and wash white the
blackamoors of Newcastle : Bishop of Beverley he should be
called. But, in opposition to this, the giants, it was known,
had intended to put forth the whole measure of their brute
force. More curates, they said, were wanting, and district
incumbents ; not more bishops rolling in carriages. That
bishops should roll in carriages was very good ; but of such
blessings the English world for the present had enough. And
therefore Lord Brock and the gods had had much fear as to
their little project. But now, immediately on the accession
of the giants, it was known that the bishop bill was to be gone
on with immediately. Some small changes would be effected
so that the bill should be gigantic rather than divine ; but the
result would be altogether the same. It must, however, be
admitted that bishops appointed by ourselves may be very
good things, whereas those appointed by our adversaries will
be anything but good. And, no doubt, this feeling went a
long way with the giants. Be that as it may, the new bishop
bill was to be their first work of government, and it was to be
brought forward and carried, and the new prelates selected and
put into their chairs all at once, — before the grouse should
begin to crow and put an end to the doings of gods as well as
giants. Among other minor effects arising from this decision
was the following — ^that Archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly returned
to London, and again took the lodgings in which they had
before been staying. On various occasions also during the
first week of this second sojourn. Dr. Grantly might be seen
entering the official chambers of the First Lord of the Treasury.
Much counsel was necessary among high churchmen of great
repute before any fixed resolution could wisely be made in such
a matter as this ; and few churchmen stood in higher repute
than the Archdeacon of Barchester. And then it began to be
rumoured in 'the world that the minister had disposed at any
rate of the see of Westminster. This present time was a very
nervous one for Mrs. Grantly. What might be the aspirations
The Triumph of the Giants 223
of the archdeacon himself, we will not stop to inquire. It may
be that time and experience had taught him the futility of
earthly honours, and made him content with the comfortable
opulence of his Barsetshire rectory. But there is no theory of
church discipline which makes it necessary that a clergyman’s
wife should have an objection to a bishopric. The archdeacon
probably ’^^as only anxious to give a disinterested aid to the
minister, but Mrs. Grantly did long to sit in high places, and
be at any rate equal to Mrs. Proudie. It was for her children,
she said to herself, that she was thus anxious — that they should
have a good position before the world, and the means of
making the best of themselves. “ One is able to do nothing,
you know, shut up there, down at Plumstead,” she had re-
marked to Lady Lufton on the occasion of her first visit to
London, and yet the time was not long past when she had
thought that rectory house at Plumstead to be by no means
insufficient or contemptible. And then there came a question
whether or no Griselda should go back to her mother ; but this
idea was very strongly opposed by Lady Lufton, and ultimately
with success. “ I really think the dear girl is very happy with
me,” said Lady Lufton ; “ and if ever she is to belong to me
more closely, it will be so well that we should know and love
one another.”
To tell the truth, Lady Lufton had been trying hard to know
and love Griselda, but hitherto she had scarcely succeeded to
the full extent of her wishes. That she loved Griselda was
certain, — with that sort of love which springs from a person’s
volition and not from the judgment. She had said all along
to herself and others that she did love Griselda Grantly. She
had admired the young lady’s face, liked her manner, approved
of her fortune and family, and had selected her for a daughter-
in-law in a somewhat impetuous manner. Therefore she loved
her. But it was by no means clear to Lady Lufton that she
did as yet know her young friend. The match was a plan of
her own, and therefore she stuck to it as warmly as ever ; but
she began to have some misgivings whether or no the dear
girl would be to her herself all that she had dreamed of in a
daughter-in-law. “ But, dear Lady Lufton,” said Mrs. Grantly,
“ is it not possible that we may put her affections to too
severe a test ? What, if she should learn to regard him, and
then ”
** Ah ! if she did, I should have no fear of the result. If
she showed anything like love for Ludovic, he would be at her
feet in a moment. He is impulsive, but she is not”
224 Framley Parsonage
“ Exactly, I^ady Lufton. It is his privilege to be impulsive
and to sue for her affection, and hers to have her love sought
for without making any demonstration. It is perhaps the
fault of young ladies of the present day that they are too
impulsive. They assume privileges which are not their own,
and thus lose those which are.”
“ Quite true ! I quite agree with you. It is probably that
very feeling that has made me think so highly of Gri«;elda.
But then ” But then a young lady, though she need not
jump down a gentleman's throat, or throw herself into his face,
may give some signs that she is made of flesh and blood;
especially when her papa and mamma and all belonging to her
are so anxious to make the path of her love run smooth. 'Fhat
was what was passing thr(jugh Lady Lufton's mind ; but she
did not say it all ; she meiely looked it.
“ I don't think she will ever allow herself to indulge in an
unauthorized passion,” said Mrs. Grant ly.
“ I am sure she will not,” said Lady Lufton, with ready
agreement, fearing perhaps in her heart that Griselda would
never indulge in any passion, authorized or unauthorized.
“ I don't know whether Lord Lufton sees much of her
now,” .said Mrs. Grantly, thinking perhaps of that promise
of Lady Lufton's with reference to his lordship’s spare
time.
“ Ju.st lately, during these changes, you know’, everybody has
been so much engaged. Ludovic has been constantly at the
House, and then men find it so necessary to be at their clubs
just now.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Grantly, who was not at all
disposed to think little of the importance of the pre.sent crisis,
or to ivonder tliat men shuuld congregate together when such
deeds were to be done as those which now occupied the
breasts of the Queen’s advisers. At lab^, however, the two
mothers pertVctly understood each other. Griselda was still to
remain with Lady Lufton ; and was to accept her ladyship’s
son, if he could only be induced to exercise his privilege of
asking her ; but in the meantime, as this seemed to be doubt-
ful, Griselda was not to be debarred from her privilege of
making what use she could of any other string which she might
have to her bow.
“ But, mamma,” said Griselda, in a moment of unwatched
intercourse 'between the mother and daughter, “ is it really true
that they are going to make papa a bishop ? ”
“ We can tell nothing as yet, my dear. People in the world
The Triumph of the Giants 225
are talking about it. Your papa has been a good deal with
Lord De Terrier.**
“ And isn*t he prime minister?**
“ Oh, yes ; I arn happy to say that he is.**
“ I thought the prime minister could make any one a bishop
that he chooses, — any clergyman, that is.**
‘^But there is no see vacant,** said ATrs. Grantly.
“ Then there isn*t any chance,** said Griselda, looking very
glum.
‘^'i’hey are going to have an Act of Parliament for making
two more bishops. That*s what they are talking about at least.
And if they do ’*
“ Papa will be Bishop of Westminster — won*t he ? And we
shall live in Lon^^Oii ? **
“ But you must not talk about it, my dear.**
“ No, I won*t. But, mamma, a Bishop of Westminster will
be higher than a Bishop of Barchester ; \von*t he ? 1 shall so
like to be able to snub those Miss Proudies.** It will therefore
be seen that there were matters on which even Griselda Grantly
could be animated. Like the rest of her family she was
devoted to the Church. Late on that afternoon the arch-
deacon returned home to dine in Mount Stieet, having spent
the whole of the day between the Treasury chambers, a
meeting of Convocation, and his club. And when he did get
home it was soon manifest to his wife that he was not laden
with good news. “ It is almost incredible,'* he said, standing
with his back to the drawing-room fire.
“ What is incredible ? ** said his wife, sharing her husband's
anxiety to the full.
“ If I had not learned it as fact, I would not have believed
it, even of Lord EroLk,” said the archdeacon.
“ Learned what ? ** said the anxious wife.
“ After all, they are going to opiiose the bill.**
“ Impossible ! ’* said Mrs. Grantly.
“ But they are.”
“ The bill for the two new bishops, archdeacon ? oppose
their own bill ! **
“ Yes — oppose their own bill. It is almost incredible ; but
so' it is. Some changes have been forced upon us ; little
things which they had forgotten — quite minor matters ; and
they now say that they will be obliged to divide against us on
these twopenny-halfpenny, hair-splitting points. It is Lord
Brock's own doing too, after all that he said about abstaining
from factious opposition to the government.’*
226 Fratnley Parsonage
“ 1 believe there is nothing too bad or too false for that man/'
said Mrs. Grantly.
“ After all they said, too, when they were in power them-
selves, as to the present government opposing the cause of
religion ! They declare now that Lord De Terrier cannot be
very anxious about it, as he had so many good reasons against
it a few weeks ago. Is it not dreadful that there should be
such double-dealing in men in such positions ? ”
“ It is sickening,'* said Mrs. Grantly. And then there was
a pause between them as each thought of the injury that was
done to them.
“ But, archdeacon '*
“Well?**
“ Could you not give up those small points and shame them
into compliance ? **
“ Nothing would shame them.”
“ But would it not be well to try ? *' The game was so
good a one, and the stake so important, that Mrs. Grantly felt
that it would be worth playing for to the last.
“ It is no good.”
“ But I certainly would suggest it to Lord De Terrier. I
am sure the country would go along with him ; at any rate the
Church would.**
“ It is impossible,** said the archdeacon. “ To tell the truth,
it did occur to me. But some of them down there seemed to
think that it would not do.” Mrs. Grantly sat awhile on the
sofa, still meditating in her mind whether there might not yet
be some escape from so terrible a downfall.
“ But, archdeacon *’
“ 1*11 go upstairs and dress,” said he, in despondency.
“ But, archdeacon, surely the present ministry may have a
majority on such a subject as that ; I thought they were sure
e( a majority now.”
“ No ; not sure.”
“But at any rate the chances are in their favour? I do
hope they*ll do their duty, and exert themselves to keep their ^
members together.” And then the archdeacon told out the';
whole of the truth.
“Lord De Terrier says that under the present circum-
stances he will not bring the matter forward this session at all.
So we had. better go back to Plumstead.” Mrs. Grantly then
felt that there was nothing further to be said, and it will
be proper that the historian should drop a veil over their
sufferings.
Magna Est Veritas 227
CHAPTER XXIV
MAGNA EST VERITAS
It was made known to the reader that in the early part of the
winter Mr. Sowerby had a scheme for retrieving his lost
fortunes, and setting himself right in the world, by marrying
that rich heiress, Miss Dunstable. I fear my friend Sowerby
does not, at present, stand high in the estimation of those who
have come on with me thus far in this narrative. He has been
described as a spendthrift and gambler, and as one scarcely
honest in his extravagance and gambling. But nevertheless there
are worse men than Mr. Sowerby, and I am not prepared to say
that, should he be successful with Miss Dunstable, that lady
would choose by any means the worst of the suitors who are
continually throwing themselves at her feet. Reckless as this
man always appeared to be, reckless as he absolutely was,
there was still within his hea^’t a desire for better things, and
in his mind an understanding that he had hitherto missed the
career of an honest English gentleman. He was proud of his
position as member for his county, though hitherto he had
done so little to grace it ; he was proud of his domain at
Chaldicotes, though the possession of it had so nearly passed
out of his own hands ; he was proud of the old blood that
flowed in his veins ; and he was proud also of that easy, com-
fortable, gay manner, which went so far in the world’s judg-
ment to atone for his extravagance and evil practices. If only
he could get another chance, as he now said to himself, things
should go very differently with him. He would utterly for-
swear the whole company of Tozers. He would cease to
deal in bills, and to pay heaven only knows how many hundred
per cent, for his moneys. He would no longer prey upon his
friends, and would redeem his title-deeds from the clutches of
the Duke of Omnium. If only he could get another chance I
Miss Dunstable’s fortune would do all this and ever so much
^ more, and then, moreover. Miss Dunstable was a woman whom
he really liked. She was not soft, feminine, or pretty, nor was
she very young ; but she was clever, self-possessed, and quite
able to hold her own in any class ; and as to age, Mr. Sowerby
was not very young himself. In making such a match he
would have no cause of shame. He could speak of it before
his friends without fear of their grimaces, and ask them to his
house, with the full assurance that the head of his table would
228 Framley Parsonage
not disgrace him. And then as the scheme grew clearer andi
clearer to him, he declared to himself that if he should he
successful, he would use her well, and not rob her of her^,
money — beyond what was absolutely necessary. He had
intended to have laid his fortunes at her feet at Chaldicotes ;
but the lady had been coy. Then the deed was to have been
done at Gatherum Castle, but the lady ran away from
Gatherum Castle just at the time on which he had fixed. And
since that, one circumstance after another had postponed the
afiair in London, till now at last he was resolved that he would
know his fate, let it be what it might If he could not contrive
that things should speedily be arranged, it might come to pass
that he would be altogether debarred from presenting himself
to the lady as Mr. Sowerby of Chaldicotes. Tidings had
reached him, through Mr. Fothergill, that the duke would be
glad to have matters arranged; and Mr. Sowerby well knew
the meaning of that message.
Mr. Sowerby was not fighting this campaign alone, withou*^
the aid of any ally. Indeed, no man ever had a more trustj
ally in any campaign than he had in this. And it was this ally,
the only faithful comrade that clung to him through good and
ill during his whole life, who first put it into his head that
Miss Dunstable was a woman and might be married. “A
hundred needy adventurers have attempted it, and failed
already,” Mr. Sowerby had said, w’hen the plan was first
proposed to him.
“ But, nevertheless, she will some day marry some one ; and
why not you as well as another?” his sister had answered.
For Mrs. Harold Smith was the ally of whom I have spoken.
Mrs. Harold Smith, whatever may have been her faults, could
boast of this virtue — that she loved her brother. He was
probably the only human being that she did love. Children
she had none ; and as for her husband, it had never occurred
to her to love him. She had married him for a position ; and
being a clever woman, with a good digestion and command of
her temper, had managed to get through the world without
much of that unhappine:^s which usually follows ill-assorted^
marriages. At home she managed to keep the upper hand, but >
she did so in an easy, good-humoured way that made her rule
bearable ; and away from home she assisted her lord’s political
standing, though she laughed more keenly than any one else at
his foibles. - But the lord of her heart was her brother; and in^
all his scrapes, all his extravagances, and all his recklessness,
she had ever been willing to assist him. With the view
Magna Est Veritas 229
af doing this she had sought the intimacy of Miss Dunstable,
and for the last year past had indulged every caprice of that
*ady. Or rather, she had had the wit to learn that Miss Dun-
^ilable was to be won, not by the indulgence of caprices, but by
^iee and easy intercourse, with a dash of fun, and, at any rate,
i semblance of honesty. Mrs. Harold Smith was not, perhaps,
lerself very honest by disposition ; but in these iattcr days she
lad taken up a theory of honesty for the sake of Miss Dun-
Stable — not altogether in vain, for Miss Dunstable and
Mrs. Harold Smith were certainly very intimate.
“ If I am to do it at all, I must not wait any longer,” said
Mr. Sowerby to his sister a day or two after the final break-
down of the gods. The affection of the sister for the brother
may be imagined from the fact that at such a time she could
give up her mind to Liirh a subject. But, in truth, her
husband’s position as a cabinet minister was as nothing to her
compared with her brother’s position as a county gentleman.
One time is as good as another,” said Mrs. Harold Smith.
“You mean that you would advise me to ask her at once.”
“Certainly. But you must icmembcr, Nat, that you will
have no easy task. It will not do for you to kneel down and
swear that you love her.”
“ If I do it at all, 1 shall certainly do it without kneeling —
you may be sure of that, Harriet.”
“Yes, and without swearing that you love her. There
is only one way in which you can be successful with
Miss Dunstable — you must tell her the truth.”
“ What 1 tell her that I am ruined, horse, foot, and dragoons,
and then bid her help me out of the mire ? ”
“ E.xactly : that will be your only chance, strange as it may
appear.”
“ This is very different from what you used to say, down at
Chaldicotes.”
“ So it is ; but I know her much better than I did when we
were there. Since then I have done but little else than study
the freaks of her character. If she really likes you — and
I think she does — she could forgive you any other crime
but that of swearing that you loved her.”
. “ I should hardly know how to propose without saying
something about it.”
“ But you must say nothing — not a word ; you must tell hei
that you are a gentleman of good blood and high station, but
sadly out at elbows.”
“ She knows that already.”
Framley Parsonage
230
“Of course she does; but she must know it as conQI
directly from your own mouth. And then tell her that
proi>ose to set yourself right by marrying her — by marrying f
for the sake of her money.”
“That will hardly win her, I should say.”
“ If it does not, no other way, that I know of, will do
As I told you before, it will be no easy task. Of course jl
must make her understand that her happiness shall be caJ
for; but that must not be put prominently forward as yJ
object. Your first object is her money, and your only chaj
for success is in telling the truth.”
“It is very seldom that a man finds himself in sucM
position as that,” said Sowerby, walking up and down
sister’s room ; “ and, upon my word, I don't think I am
to the task. I should certainly break down. I don’t bclia
there’s a man in London could go to a woman with sucS
story as that, and then ask her to marry him.”
“If you cannot, you may as well give it up,” said
Harold Smith. “ But if you can do it — if you can go throii
with it in that manner — my own opinion is that your chai|
of success would not be i)ad. The fact is,” added the sw
after awhile, during which her brother was continuing his wi.
and meditating on the difficulties of his position — “the M
is, you men never understand a woman ; you give her cred
neither for *her strength, nor for her weakness. You are tc
bold, and too timid : you think she is a fool and tell her^
and yet never can trust her to do a kind action. Wliy sho||
she not marry you with the intention of doing you a good tul
After all, she would lose very little ; there is the estate, anS
she redeemed it, it would belong to her as well as to you.”
“ It would be a good turn, indeed. I fear I should bq
modest to put it to her in that way.”
“Her position would be much better as your wife thi
is at present. You are good-humoured and good-tempJ
you would intend to treat her well, and, on the wholej
would be much happier as Mrs. Sowerby, of Chaldicotes,
she can be in her present position.”
“ If she cared about being married, I suppose she couH
a peer’s wife to-morrow.”
“ But I don’t think she cares about being a peer’s wife|
needy peer might perhaps win her in the way that I pre
to you ; but then a needy peer would not know how ta
about it. Needy peers have tried — half a dozen I havej
doubt — and have failed, because they have pretended .1
Magna Est Veritas 231
they were in love with her. It may be difficult, but your only
chance is to tell her the truth.”
“And where shall I do it?”
“ Here if you choose ; but her own house will be better.”
“But I never can see her there — at least, not alone. I
believe that she never is alone. She always keeps a lot of
people r'^und her in order to stave off her lovers. Upon my
word, Harriet, I think Til give it up. It is impossible that I
should make such a declaration to her as that you propose.”
“ Faint heart, Nat you know the rest.”
“But the poet never alluded to such w'ooing as that you
have suggested. I suppose 1 had better begin- with a schedule
of my debts, and make reference, if she doubts me, to Fother-
gill, the sheriffs officers, and the Tozer family.”
“ She will not doubt you, on that head ; nor will she be a
bit surprised.” Then theie was again a pause, during which
Mr. Sowerby still walked up and down the room, thinking
.whether or no he might possibly have any chance of success in
so hazardous an enterprise.
“ I tell you w'hat, Harriet,” at last he said ; “ I wish you'd
do it for me.”
“Well,” said she, “if you really mean it, I will make the
attempt.”
“ I am sure of this, that I shall never make it myself. I
positively should not have the courage to tell her in so many
words, that I wanted to marry her for her money.”
“Well, Nat, I will attempt it. At any rate, I am not afraid
of her. She and 1 are excellent friends, and, to tell the truth,
I think I like her better than any other woman that I know ;
but I never should have been intimate with her, had it not
been for your sake.”
“ And now you will have to quarrel with her, also for my
5ake?”
“Not at all. You'll find that whether she accedes to my
proposition or not, we shall continue friends. I do not think
that she would die for me — nor I for her. But as the world
goes we suit each other. Such a little trifle as this will not
break our loves.” And so it was settled. On the following
day Mrs. Harold Smith was to find an opportunity of explaining
the whole matter to Miss Dunstable, and was to ask that lady
to share her fortune — some incredible number of thousands of
pounds — with the bankrupt member for West Barsetshire, who
in return was to bestow on her — himself and his debts. Mrs.
Haiold Smith had spoken no more than the truth in saying
232 Framley Parsonage
that she and Miss Dunstable suited one another. And she
had not improperly described their friendship. They were not
prepared to die, one for the sake of the other. They had said
nothing to each other of mutual love and affection. They
never kissed, or cried, or made speeches, when they met or
when they parted. There was no great benefit for which
either had to be grateful to the other ; no terrible injury which
either had forgiven. But they suited each other ; and this, I
take it, is the secret of most of our pleasantest intercourse in
the world. And it was almost grievous that they should suit
each other, for Miss Dunstable was much the worthier of the
two, had she but known it herself. It was almost to be
lamented that she should have found herself able to live with
Mrs. Harold Smith on terms that were perfectly satisfactory
to herself. Mrs. Harold Smith was worldly, heartless — to all
the world but her brother — and, as has been above hinted,
almost dishonest. Miss Dunstable was not worldly, though
it was possible that her present style of life might make her
so ; she was affectionate, fond of truth, and prone to honesty,
if those around would but allow her to exercise it. But she
was fond of ease and humour, sometimes of wit that might
almost be called broad, and she had a thorough love of
ridiculing the world’s humbugs. In all these propensities
Mrs. Harold, Smith indulged her.
Under these circumstances they were now together almost
every day. It had become quite a habit with Mrs. Harold
Smith to have herself driven early in the forenoon to Miss
Dunstable's house ; and that lady, though she could never be
found alone by Mr. Soweiby, was habitually so found by his
sister. And after that they would go out together, or each
separately, as fancy or the business of the day might direct
them. Each was easy to the otlner in this alliance, and they
so managed that they never trod on each other's corns. On
the day following the agreement made between Mr. Sowerby
and Mrs. Harold Smith, that lady as usual called on Miss
Dunstable, and soon found herself alone with her friend in a
small room which the heiress kept solely for her own purposes.
On special occasions persons of various sorts were there
admitted ; occasionally a parson who had a church to build,
or a dowager laden with the last morsel of town slander, or a
poor author who could not get due payment for the efforts of
his brain, or a poor governess on whose feeble stamina the
weight of the world had borne too hardly. But men who by
possibility could be lovers did not make their way thither.
Magna Est Veritas 233
nor women who could be bores. In these latter days, that is,
during the present London season, the doors of it had been
oftener opened to Mrs. Harold Smith than to any other person.
And now the effort was to be n^ade with Ih.e object of which
all this intimacy had been effected. As she came thither in
her carriage, Mrs. Harold vSmith herself was rot altogether
devoid of that sinking of the heart which is so frequently the
forerunner of any dithcult and hazardous undertaking. She
had declared that she would feel no fear in making the little
proposition. But she did feel something very like it: and
when she made her entrance into the little room slie certainly
wished that the work was done and over.
“How is poor Mr. Smith to-day asked Miss Dunstable,
with an air of mock condolence, as her friend seated herself
in her accustom. ‘d easy-chair. The downfall of the gods was
as yet a history hardly three days old, and it might well be
supposed that the late lord of the Petty Bag had hardly
recovered from his misfortune. “Well, he is bettci, I think,
this morning ; at least I shouM judge so from the manner in
which he confronted his eggs. But still I don't like the way
he handles the carving-knife. I am sure he is always thinking
of Mr. Siqiplehousc at tliose moments.”
“Poor man ! I mean Supplehouse. After all, why shouldn’t
he follow his trade as well as another ? Live and let live, that’s
what I say.”
“Ay, but it’s kill and let kill with him. That is what
Horace says. However, I am tired of all that now, and I
came here to-day to talk about something else.”
“1 rather like Mr. Supplehouse myself,” exclaimed Miss
Dunstable. “ He never makes any bones about the matter.
He has a certain work to do, and a certain cause to serve —
namely, his own ; and in order to do that work, and serve that
cause, he uses such weapons as God has placed in his hands.”
“ That’s what the wild beasts do.”
“ And where will you find men honester than they ? The
tiger tears you up because he is hungry and wants to eat you.
That’s what Supi^lchouse does. But there are so many among
us tearing up one another without any excuse of hunger. The
mere pleasure of destroying is reason enough.”
“ Well, my dear, my mission to you to-day is certainly not
one of destruction, as you will admit when you hear it. It is
one, rather, very absolutely of salvation. I have come to make
love to you.”
“ Then the salvation, 1 suppose, is not for myself,” said
234 Framley Parsonage
Miss Dunstable. It was quite clear to Mrs. Harold Smith
that Miss Dunstable had immediately understood the whole
purport of this visit, and that she was not in any great measure
surprised. It did not seem from the tone of the heiress’s
voice, or from the serious look which at once settled on her
face, that she would be prepared to give a very ready compliance.
But then great objects can only be won with great efforts.
“ That’s as may be,” said Mrs. Harold Smith. “ For you
and another also, I hope. But I trust, at any rate, that I may
not offend you ? ”
“ Oh, laws, no ; nothing of that kind ever offends me now.”
“ Well, I suppose you’re used to it.”
“ Like the eels, my dear. I don’t mind it the least in the
world — only sometimes, you know, it is a little tedious.”
“ I’ll endeavour to avoid that, so I may as well break the ice
at once. You know enough of Nathaniel’s affairs to be aware
that he is not a very rich man.”
“ Since you do ask me about it, I suppose there’s no harm in
saying that I believe him to be a very poor man.”
“Not the least harm in the worl^ but just the reverse.
Whatever may come of this, my wish is that the truth should
be told scrupulously on all sides ; the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth.”
“ Magna ,t5t veritas^^ said Miss Dunstable. “ The Bishop
of Barchester taught me as much Latin as that at Chaldicotcs ;
and he did add some more, but there was a long word, and I
forgot it.”
“ The bishop was quite right, my dear. I’m sure. But if you
go to your Latin, I’m lost. As we were just now saying, my
brother’s pecuniary affairs are in a very bad state. He has a
beautiful property of his own, which has been in the family for
I can’t say how many centuries — long before the Conquest,
I know.”
“ I wonder what my ancestors were then ? ”
“ It does not much signify to any of us,” said Mrs. Harold
Smith, with a moral shake of her head, “what our ancestors
were ; but it’s a sad thing to see an old property go to ruin.”
“ Yes, indeed ; we none of us like to see our property going
to min, whether it be old or new. I have some of that sort of
feeling already, although mine was only made the other day
out of an apothecary’s shop.”
“ God forbid that I should ever help you to min it,” said
Mrs. Harold Smith. “ I should be sorry to be the means of
your losing a ten-pound note.”
Magna Est Veritas 235
Magna est veritas^ as the dear bishop said,” exclaimed
Miss Dunstable. “ Let us have the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth, as we agreed just now.” Mrs. Harold
Smith did begin to find that the task before her was difficult.
There was a hardness about Miss Dunsta])le when matters of
business were concerned on which it seemed almost impossible
to make any impression. It was not that she had evinced any
determination to refuse the tender of Mr. Sowerby’s hand ; but
she was so painfully resolute not to have dust thrown in
her eyes I Mrs. Harold Smith had commenced with a mind
fixed upon avoiding what she called humbug ; but this sort of
humbug had become so prominent a part of her usual rhetoric,
that she found it very hard to abandon it. “ And that’s what
I wish,” said she. ‘‘O'” course my chief object is to secure my
brother’s happiness.”
“ That’s very unkind to poor Mr. Harold Smith.”
“ Well, well, well — you know what I mean.”
“ Yes, I think I do know what you mean. Your brother is
a gentleman of good family, but of no means.”
“ Not quite so bad as that.”
“ Of embarrassed means, then, or anything that you will ;
whereas I am a lady of no family, but of sufficient wealth.
You think that if you brought us together and made a match
of it, it would be a very good thing for — for whom ? ” said
Mks Dunstable.
“ Yes, exactly,” said Mrs. Harold Smith.
“For which of us? Remember the bishop now and his nice
Uttle bit of Latin.”
“ For Nathaniel then,” said Mrs. Harold Smith boldly. “ It
would be a very good thing for him.” And a slight smile came
across her face as she said it “Now that’s honest, or the
mischief is in it”
“ Yes, that’s honest enougli. And did he send you here to
tell me this ? ”
“ Well, he did that, and something else.”
“And now let's have the something else. The really
important part, I have no doubt, has been spoken.”
“ No, by no means, by no means all of it But you are so
hard on one, my dear, with your running after honesty, that one
is not able to tell the real facts as they are. You make one
speak in such a bald, naked way.”
“ Ah, you think that anything naked must be indecent ;
even, truth.”
“ I think it is more proper-looking, and better suited, too, for
236 Framley Parsonage
the world’s woik, when it goes about with some sort of a
garment on it. We are so used to a leaven of falsehood in all
we hear and say, now-a-days, that nothing is more likely to
deceive us than the absolute truth. If a shopkeeper told me
that his wares were simply middling, of course, I should think
that they were not w^orth a farthing. But all that has nothing
to do with my poor brother. Well, what was I saying ? ”
** You were going to toll me how well he would use me, no
doubt.”
“ Something of that kind.”
“ That he wouldn’t beat me ; or spend all my money if I
managed to have it tied up out of his power ; or look down on
me with contempt because my father was an apothecary ! Was
not that what you were going to say ? ”
“ I was going to tell you that you might be more
happy as Mrs. Sowerby of Chaldicotes than you can be as
Miss Dunstable ”
“Of Mount Lebanon. And had Mr. Sowerby no ether
message to send ? — nothing about love, or anything of that
sort ? I should like, you know, to understand what his feelings
are before 1 take such a leap.”
“ I do believe he has as true a regard for you as any man of
his age ever does have ”
“ For any woman of mine. That is not putting it in a very
devoted way certainly ; but I am glad to see that you
remember the bishop’s maxim.”
“ What would you have me say ? If I told you that he was
dying for love, you w^ould say, I \vas trying to cheat you ; and
now because I don’t tell you so, you say that he is wanting in
devotion. I must say you are hard to please.”
“ Perhaps I am, and very unreasonable into the bargain.
I ought to ask no questions of the kind when your brother
proposes to do me so much honour. As for my expecting the
love of a man who condescends to wish to be my husband, that,
of course, would be monstrous. What right can I have to
think that any man should love me ? It ought to be enough
for me to know that as I am rich, I can get a husband.
What business can such as I have to inquire whether the
gentleman who would so honour me really would like my
company, or would only deign to put up with my presence in
his household ? ”
“ Now, my dear Miss Dunstable ”
** Of course I am not such an ass as to expect that any
gentleman should love me; and I feel that I ought to be
Magna Est Veritas 237
obliged to your brother for sparing me the string of com-
plimentary declarations which are usual on such occasions.
He, at any rate, is not tedious — or rather you on his behalf ;
for no doubt his own time is so occupied with his parlia-
mentary duties that he cannot attend to this little matter
himself. I do feel grateful to him ; and perhaps nothing
more will be necessary than to give him a schedule of the
property, and name an early day for putting him in possession.”
Mrs. Smith did feel that she was rather badly used. This
Miss Dunstable, in their mutual confidences, had so often
ridiculed the love-making grimaces of her mercenary suitors —
had spoken so fiercely against those who had persecuted her,
not because they had desired her money, but on account
of their ill-judgment in thinking her to be a fool — that
Mrs. Smith had a to expect that the method she had
adopted for opening the negotiation would be taken in a better
spirit. C^oiild it be possible, after all, thought Mrs. Smith
to herself, that Miss Dunstable was like other women, and that
she did like to have men kneeling at her feet? Could it
be the case that she had advised her brother badly, and that it
would have been better for him to have gone about his work in
the old-fashioned way? “ They are very hard to manage,” said
Mrs. Harold Smith to herself, thinking of her own sex.
“ He was coming here himself,” she said, ‘' but I advised him
not to do so.”
“ 'That was so kind of you.”
“ I thought that I could explain to you more openly and
more freely, what his intentions really are.”
“ Oh ! 1 have no doubt that they are honourable,” said Miss
Dunstable. “He docs not want to deceive me in that way, I
am quite sure.” It was impossible to help laughing, and Mrs.
Harold Smith did laugh. “ Upon my word you would provoke
a saint,” .said she.
“I arn not likely to get into any such company by the
alliance that you are now suggesting to me. There are not
many saints usually at Chaldicotes, I believe ; — always except-
ing my dear bishop and his wife.”
“ But, my dear, wliat am I to say to Nathaniel ? ”
Tell him, of course, how much obliged to him I am.”
“ Do listen to me one moment. I daresay that I have done
wrong to speak to you in such a bold* unroinantic way.”
“ Not at all. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth. That's what we agreed upon. But one’s first efforts
ID any line are always apt to be a little uncouth.”
238 Framley Parsonage
“ I will send Nathaniel to you himself.”
“ No, do not do so. Why torment either him or me ? I do
like your brother; in a certain way I like him much. But no
earthly consideration would induce me to marry him. Is it
not so glaringly plain that he would marry me for my money
only, that you have not even dared to suggest any other
reason ? ”
“ Of course it would have been nonsense to say that he had
no regard whatever towards your money.”
“ Of course it would — absolute nonsense. He is a poor
man with a good position, and he wants to marry me because
I have got that which he wants. But, my dear, I do not want
that which he has got, and therefore the bargain would not be
a fair one.”
“ But he would do his very best to make you happy.”
“ I am so much obliged to him ; but you see, I am very
happy as I am. What should I gain ? ”
A companion whom you confess that you like.”
“ Ah ! but I don't know that I should like too much even
of such a companion as your brother. No, my dear — it won't
do. Believe me when I tell you, once for all, that it won't
do.”
“Do you mean, then, Miss Dunstable, that you'll never
marry ? ”
“To-mofrow — if I met any one that I fancied, and he
would have me. But I rather think that any that I may fancy
won't have me. In the first place, if I marry any one, the man
must be quite indifferent to money.”
“Then you'll not find him in this world, my dear.”
“Very possibly not,” said Miss Dunstable. All that was
further said upon the subject need not be here repeated.
Mrs. Harold Smith did not give up her cause quite at once,
although Miss Dunstable had spoken so plainly. She tried to
explain how eligible would be her friend's situation as mistress
of Chaldicotes, when Chaldicotes should owe no penny to any
man ; and went so far as to hint that the master of Chaldi-
cotes, if relieved of his embarrassments and known as a rich
man, might in all probability be found worthy of a peerage
when the gods should return to Olympus. Mr. Harold Smith,
as a cabinet minister, would, of course, do his best. But it
was all of no use. “ It's not my destiny,” said Miss Dunstable,
and therefore do not press it any longer.”
“ But we shall not quarrel,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, almost
tenderly.
239
Non-Impulsive
Oh, no — why should we quarrel ? ”
And you won't look glum at my brother ? ”
Why should I look glum at him ? But, Mrs. Smith, I'll
do more than not looking glum at him. I do like you, and I
do like your brother, and if I can in any moderate way assist
him in his difficulties, let him tell me so.” Soon after this,
Mrs. Harold Smith went her way. Of course, she declared in
a very strong manner that her brother could not think of
accepting from Miss Dunstable any such pecuniary assistance
as that offiered — and, to give her her due, such was the feeling
of her mind at the moment ; but as she went to meet her
brother and gave him an account of this interview, it did
occur to her that possibly Miss Dunstable might be a better
creditor than the Duke of Omnium for the Chaldicotei
property.
CHAPTER XXV
NON-IMPULSIVE
It cannot be held as astonishing, that that last decision on
the part of the giants in the matter of the two bishoprics
should have disgusted Archdeacon Granlly. He was a poli-
tician, but not a politician as they were. As is the case with
all exoteric men, his political eyes saw a short way only, and
his political aspirations were as limited. When his friends
came into office, that bishop bill, which as the original product
of his enemies had been regarded by him as being so per-
nicious — for was it not about to be made law in order that other
Proudies and such like might be hoisted up into high places
and large incomes, to the terrible detriment of the Church ? —
that bishop bill, I say, in the hands of his friends, had
appeared to him to be a means of almost national salvation.
And then, how great had been the good fortune of the giants
in this matter ! Had they been the originators of such a
measure they would not have had a chance of success ; but
now — now that the two bishops were falling into their mouths
out of the weak hands of the gods, was not their success
ensured? So Dr. Grantly had girded up his loins and
marched up to the fight, almost regretting that the triumph
would be so easy. The subsequent failure was very trying to
his temper as a party man. It always strikes me that the sup-
porters of the Titans are in this respect much to be pitied.
The giants themselves, those who are actually handling Pelion
and breaking their shins over the lower rocks of Ossa, are
240 Framley Parsonage
always advancing in some sort towards the councils of Olympus.
Their highest policy is to snatch some ray from heaven. Why
else put Pelion on Ossa, unless it be that a furtive hand,
making its way through Jove’s windows, may pluck forth a
thunderbolt or two, or some article less destructive, but of
manufacture equally divine? And in this consists the wisdom
of the higher giants — that, in spite of their mundane antece-
dents, theories, and predilections, they can see that articles of
divine manufacture are necessary. But then they never carry
their supporters with them. Their whole army is an army of
martyrs. “ For twenty years I have stuck to them, and see
how they have treated me 1 ” Is not that always the plaint of
an old giant-slave ? “I have been true to my party all my
life, and where am I now ? ” he says. Where, indeed, my
friend ? Looking about you, you begin to learn that you
cannot describe your whereabouts. I do not marvel at that.
No one finds himself planted at last in so terribly foul
a morass, as he would fain stand still for ever on dry
ground.
Dr. Grantly was disgusted ; and although he was himself
too true a.nd thorough in all his feelings, to be able to say
aloud that any giant was wrong, still he had a sad feeling
within his heart that the world was sinking from under him.
He was still sufficiently exoteric to think that a good stand-up
fight in a good cause was a good thing. No doubt he did wish
to be Bishop of Westminster, and was anxious to compass that
preferment by any means that might appear to him to be fair.
And why not? But this was not the end of his aspirations.
He wished that the giants might prevail in everything, in
bishoprics as in all other matters ; and he could not under-
stand that they should give way on the very first appearance of
a skirmish. In his open talk he was loud against many a god ;
but in his heart of hearts he was bitter enough against both
Porphyrion and Orion.
“ My dear doctor, it would not do ; — not in this session ; it
would not indeed.” So had spoken to him a half- fledged but
especially esoteric young monster-cub at the Treasury, who
considered himself as up to all the dodges of his party, and
regarded the army of martyrs wlio supported it as a rather
heavy, but very useful collection of fogeys. Dr. Grantly had
not cared to discuss the matter with the half-fledged monster-
cub. The best licked of all the monsters, the giant most like
a god of them all, had said a word or two to him ; and he also
had said a word or two to that giant. Porphyrion had told
Non-Impulsive 241
him that the bishop bill would not do ; and he, in return,
speaking with warm face, and blood in his ciiceks, had told
Porphyrion that he saw no reason why the bill should not do.
The courteous giant had smiled as he shook his pr)nderous
head, and then the archdeacon had left him, unconsciously
shaking some dust from his shoes, as he paced the passages of
the Treasury chambers for the last time. As he walked back
to his lodgings in Mount Street, many thoughts, not altogether
bad in their nature, passed through his mind. Why should he
trouble himself about a bishopric ? Was he not well as he
was, in his rectory down at Plunistead ? Might it not be ill
for him at his age to transplant himself into new soil, to engage
in new duties, and live among new people ? Was he not
useful at Barchester, and respected also ; and might it not be
possible, that up l‘ 1 Westminster, he might be regarded
merely as a tool which oih^*r men could work ? He had not
quite liked the tone of that specially esoteric voung monster-
cub, who had clearly regarded him as a disiinguislicd fogey
from tne army of martyrs. Ho would take his wife back to
Barsetshire, and there live contented with the good things
which Providence had given him.
Those high political grapes had become sour, my sneering
friends will say. Well ? Is it not a good thing that grapes
should become sour which hang out of reach ? Is he not wise
who can regard all grapes as sour which are manifestly loo
high for his hand? 'Fhose grapes of the Treasury bench, for
which gods and giants fight, suffering so much when they are
forced to abstain from eating, and so much more when they
do eat, — those grape-s are very sour to me. I am sure that
they are indigestible, and that those who eat them undergo all
the ills which the Revalenta Arabica is prepared to cure. And
so it was now with the archdeacon. lie thought of the strain
which would have been put on his conscience had he come
up there to sit in London as Bishop of Westminster; and in
this frame of mind he walked home to his wife. During the
first few moments of his interview with her all his regrets had
come back upon him. Indeed, it would have hardly suited
for him then to have preached this new doctrine of rural con-
tentment. The wife of his bosom, whom he so fully trusted —
had so fully loved — wished for grapes that hung high upon the
wall, and he knew that it was past his power to leach her at
the moment to drop her ambition. Any teaching that he
might effect in that way, must come by degrees. But before
many minutes were over he had told her of her fate and of his
242 Framley Parsonage
own decision. “ So we had better go back to Plumstead,” he
said ; and she had not dissented.
“ I am sorry for poor Griselda*s sake,” Mrs. Grantly had
remarked later in the evening, when they were again together.
“ But I thought she was to remain with Lady Liifton ? ”
“ Well ; so she will, for a little time. There is no one with
whom 1 would so soon trust her out of my own care as with
Lady Lufton. She is all that one can desire.”
“Exactly; and as far as Griselda is concerned, I cannot say
that I think she is to be pitied.”
“ Not to be pitied, perhaps,” said Mrs. Grantly. “ But, you
see, archdeacon. Lady Lufton, of course, has her own views.”
“ Her own view’s ? ”
“ It is hardly any secret that she is very anxious to make a
match between Lord Lulion and Griselda. And though that
might be a very proper arrangement if it were fixed ”
“ Lord Lufton marry Griselda I ” said the archdeacon, ’
speaking quick and raising his eyebrows. His mind had as
yet been troubled by but few thoughts respecting his child^s
future establishment. “ I had never dreamt of such a thing.”
“ But other people have done more than dream of it, arch-
deacon. As regards the match itself, it would, I think, be
unobjectionable. Lord Lufton will not be a very rich man,
but his property is respectable, and as far as I can learn his
character is on the whole good. If they like each other, I
should be contented with such a marriage. But, I must own,
I am not quite satisfied at the idea of leaving her all alone with
Lady Lufton. People will look on it as a settled thing, when
it is not settled — and very probably may not be settled ; and
that will do the poor girl harm. She is very much admired ;
there can be no doubt of that ; and Lord Dumbello ”
The archdeacon opened his eyes still wider. He had had
no idea that such a choice of sons-in-law was being prepared
for him ; and, to tell the truth, was almost bewildered by the >
height of his wife's ambition. Lord Lufton, with his barony
and twenty thousand a year, might be accepted as just good
enough ; but failing him there was an embryo marquis, whose
fortune would be more than ten times as great, all ready to
accept his child ! And then he thought, as husbands some-
times will think, of Susan Harding as she was when he had
gone a-courting to her under the elms before the house in the
warden's garden at Barchester, and of dear old Mr. Harding,
his wife's father, who still lived in humble lodgings in that
dty; and as he thought, he wondered at and admired the
Non-Impulsive 243
f eatness of that ladv^s mind. “1 never can forgive Lord
e Terrier,” said the lady, connecting vaiious points together
her own mmd.
“That’s nonsense,” said the archdeacon. “You must
forgive him ”
“And I must confess that it annoys me to leave London at
present ”
“ It can I be helped,” said the archdeacon, somewhat gruffly ;
for he i/vas a man who, on certain points, chose to ha\e his
own way — and hid it.
“ Oh, no : I know it can’t be helped,” said Mrs. Griptly, in
a tone which implied a deep injury “ I know it cin’t be
helped Poor Griselda • ” And then they went to bed On
the next morning Griselda came to her, and in an interview
that was strictly p^- vale, her mother said more to her than she
had ever yet suoken, as to the piospecls of her future lite.
Hitherto, on this subject, Mrs Grantly had siid little or
nothing She would have been well pleased that her daughter
should have received the incense cf Lord Liifton’s vows — or,
perhaps, as well pleased had it been the incense of Lord
Dumbello’s vows —without any interference on her part. In
such case her child, she knew, would have told her with quite
sufficient eagerness, and the matter in either case would have
been arranged as a very pietty love match. She had no fear
of any impropriety or of any rashness on Griselda’s part. She
had thorougnly known her daughter when she boasted that
Griselda would never indulge in an unauthorized passion
But as matters now stood, with those two strings to her bow,
and with that Lufton-Grantly alliance treaty in existence — of
which she, Griselda herself, knew nothing — might it not be
pos'-ible that the poor child should stumble thiough want of
adequate direction ? Guided b> these thoughts, Mrs Grantly
had resolved to say a few words before she left London So
she wrote a line to her daughter, and Griselda readied Mount
Street at two o’clock in I^dy Lufion’s carriage, which, during
the interview, waited for her at the beer shop round the corner.
“And papa won’t be Bishop of Westminster ? ” said the
young lady, when the doings of the giants had been ufficiently
explained to make her understand that all those hopes were
over.
“ No, my dear , at any rate not now,”
“ What a shame ! I thought it was all settled. What’s the
good, mamma, of Lord De 1 erner being prime minister, if he
can’t make whom he likes a bishop ? ”
244 Framley Parsonage
“ I don't think that Ix)rd De Terrier has behaved at all wet;
to your father. However, that's a long question, and we can^'
go into it now.”
“ How glad those Proudies will be ! ” Griselda would hav6
talked by the hour on this subject had her mother allowed her,
but it was necessary that Mrs. Grantly should go to other
matters. She began about Lady Lufton, saying what a dear
woman her ladyship was ; and then went on to say that
Griselda was to remain in London as long as it suited her
friend and hostess to stay there w-ith her; but added, that this
might pjobably not be very long, as it was notorious that Lady
Lufton, when in London, was always in a hurry to get back to
Framley.
“ But I don’t think she is in such a hurry this year, mamma,”
said Griselda, who in the month of May preferred Bruton
Street to Plumstead, and had no objection whatever to the
coronet on the panels of Lady Lufton’s coach. And then
Mrs. Grantly commenced her explanation — very cautiously.
“ No, my dear, I daresay she is not in such a hurry this year,
— that is, as long as you remain with her.”
“ I am sure she is very kind.”
“ She is very kind, and you ought to love her very much.
I know J do. I ha\e no friend in tlie world for whom I have
a greater regard than for Lady Lufton. It is that which
makes me so happy to leave you with her.”
“ All the same, 1 wish that you and papa had remained up ;
that is, if they had made papa a bishop.”
“ It’s no good thinking of that now, my dear. What 1
particularly wanted to say to you was this : I think you should
know wli.at are the ideas which I^dy Lufton entertains.”
“ Her ideas ! ” said Griselda, who had never troubled hersell
much in thinking about other people’s thoughts.
“ Yes, Griselda. While you were staying down at Framley
Court, and also, I suppose, since you have been up here in
Bruton Street, you must have seen a good deal of — Lord
Lufton.”
“He doesn’t come very often to Bruton Street, — that is to
say, not very often.”
“ H-m,” ejaculated Mrs. Grantly, very gently. She would
willingly have repressed the sound altogether, but it had been
too much for her. If she found reason to think that Lady
Lufton was playing her false, she would immediately take her
daughter away, break up the treaty, and prepare for the Hartle-
top alliance. Such were the thoughts that ran through her
Non-Impulsive 245
lind. But she knew all the while that Lady Lufton was not
dse. The fault was not with Lady Lufton ; nor, perhaps,
together with Lord Lufton. Mrs. Grantly had understood
ne full force of the complaint which Lady Lufton had made
gainst her daughter ; and though she had of course defended
ler child, and on the whole had defended her successfully,
yet she confessed to herself that Griselda^s chance of a first-
rate e.stal)h..hment would be better if she w^ere a little more
impulsive. A man does not wish to marry a statue, let the
statue be ever so statuesque. She could not teach her
daughter to be impulsive, any more than she could teach her
to be six feet high; but might it not be possible to teach
her to seem so? 'The task was a very delicate one, even for
a mother’s hand. “ Of course he cannot be at home now as
much as he was down in the country, when he was living
in the same house,” said Mrs. Grantly, whose business it was to
take Lord Lufton’s part at the present moment. “ Me must be
at his club, and at the House of Lords, and in twenty places.”
“He is very fond of going to parties, and he dances
beautifully.”
“ I am sure he does. I have seen as much as that myself,
and I think I know some one with whom he likes to dance.’'
•And the mother gave her daughter a loving little squeeze.
“ Do you mean me, mamma ? ”
“Yes, 1 do mean you, my dear. And is it not true? Lady
Lufton says that he likes dancing with you better than with any
one else in London.”
“ I don’t know,” said Griselda, looking down upon the ground.
Mrs. Grantly thought that this upon the whole was rather a
good opening. It might have been better. Some point of
ntcrest more serious in its nature than that of a waltz might
. lave been found on which to connect her daughter’s sympathies
with those of her future husband. But any point of interest
»^as better than none ; and it is so difficult to find points of
interest in persons who by their nature are not impulsive.
“ Lady Lufton says so, at any rate,” continued Mrs. Grantly,
ever so cautiously. “She thinks that Lord Lufton likes no
partner better. What do you think yourself, Griselda ? ”
“ I don’t know, mamm.'i.”
“ But young ladies must think of such things, must they not?'’
“ Must they, mamma ? ”
“ 1 suppose they do, don't they ? The truth is, Griselda,
hat Lady Lufton thinks that if Can you guess what it is
he thinks ? ''
246 Framley Parsonage
“ No, mamma.” But that was a fib on Griselda’s part.
She thinks that my Griselda would make the best possibS
wife in the world for her son : and 1 think so too. 1 thim
that her son will be a very fortunate man if he can get such^
wife. And now what do you think, Griselda ? ”
“ I don*t think anything, mamma.” But that would not do.
It was absolutely necessary that she should think, and absolutely
necessary that her mother should tell her so. Such a degree of
unimpulsiveness as this would lead to heaven knows what
results ! Lufton-Grantly treaties and Hartletop interests would
be all thrown away upon a young lady who would not think
anything of a noble suitor sighing for her smiles. Besides, it
was not natural. Griselda, as her mother knew, had never
been a girl of headlong feeling ; but still she had had her likes
and her dislikes. In that matter of the bishopric she was keen
enough ; and no one could evince a deeper interest in the
subject of a well-made new dress than Griselda Grantly. It
was not possible that she should be indifferent as to her future
prospects, and she must know that those prospects depended
mainly on her marriage. Her mother was almost angry with
her, but nevertheless she went on very gently :
“You don’t think anything! But, my darling, you must
think. You must make up your mind what would be your
answer if Lord Lufton were to propose to you. That is what
Lady Lufton wishes him to do.”
“ But he never will, mamma.”
“ And if he did ? ”
“ But I’m sure he never will He doesn’t think of such a
thing at all — and — and — ”
“ And what, ray dear ? ”
“ I don’t know, mamma.”
“ Surely you can speak out to me, dearest ! All I care about
is your happiness. Both Lady Lufton and I think that it would
be a happy marriage if you both cared for each other enough.
She thinks that he is fond of you. But if he were ten times ^
Lord Lufton I would not tease you about it if I thought that ^
you could not learn to care about him. What was it you were
going to say, my dear ? ”
“ Lord Lufton thinks a great deal more of Lucy Robarts than
he does of — of— ^f any one else, I believe,” said Griselda,
showing now sonie little animation by her manner, “dumpy
little black thing that she is.”
“ Lucy Robarts I ” said Mrs. Grantly, taken by surprise at'
finding that her daughter was moved by such a passion as
Non-Impiilsive 247
jealousy, and feeling also perfectly assured that there could not
be any possible ground for jealousy in such a direction as that.
“ Lucy Robarts, my dear ! I don't suppose Lord Lufton ever
thought of speaking to her, except in the way of civility.”
“ Yes, he did, mamma ! Don't you remember at Framley ?”
Mrs. Grantly began to look back in her mind, and she
thought she did remember having once observed I..ord Lufton
talking in rather a confidential manner with the parson’s sister.
But she was sure that there was nothing in it. If that was the
reason why Griselda was so cold to her proposed lover, it
would be a thousand pities that it should not be removed.
“ Now you mention her, 1 do remember the young lady,” said
Mrs. Grantly, “ a dark girl, very low, and without much figure.
She seemed to me to keep very much in the background.”
don’t know ViUk Ii about that, mamma.”
“ As far as i saw her, she did. But, my dear Griselda, you
should not allow yourself to think of such a thing. Lord
Lufton, of course, is bound to be civil to any young lady in
his mother’s house, and I am quite sure that he has no other
idea whatever with regard to Miss Robarts. I certainly cannot
^ speak as to her intellect, for I do not think she opened her
^ mouth in rny presence ; l)ut ”
“ Oh ! she has plenty to say for herself, when she pleases.
She’s a sly little thing,”
“ But, at any rate, my dear, she has no personal attractions
whatever, and I do not at all think that Lord Lufton is a man
to be taken by — by — by anything that Miss Robarts might do
or say.” As those words “ pei sonal attractions ” were uttered,
Griselda managed so to turn her neck as to catch a side view
of herself in one of the mirrors on the wall, and then she
bridled herself up, and made a little play with her eyes, and
looked, as her mother thought, very well. “ It is all nothing to
me, mamma, of course,” she said.
“ Well, my dear, perhaps not. I don’t say that it is. I do
not wish to put the slightest constraint upon your feelings.
If I did not have the most thorough dependence on your good
sense and high principles, I should not speak to you in this
way. But as I have, 1 thought it best to tell you that both
Lady Lufton and I should be well pleased if we thought that
you and Lord Lufton were fond of each other.”
“ I am sure he never thinks of such a thing, mamma.”
“ And as for Lucy Robarts, pray get that idea out of your
head ; if not for your sake, then for his. You should give him
k credit for better taste.” But it was not so easy to take any-
i8i
248 Framley Parsonage
thing out of Griselda's head that she had once taken into it.
“ As for tastes, mamma, there is no accounting for them,” she
said ; and then the colloquy on that subject was over. The
result of it on Mrs. Grantly's mind was a feeling amounting
almost to a conviction in favour of the Dumbello interest
CHAPTER XXVI
IMPULSIVE
1 TRUST my readers will all remember how Puck the pony
was beaten during that drive to Hogglestock. It may be pre-
sumed that Puck himself on that occasion did not suffer much.<^
His skin was not so soft as Mrs. Robarts’ heart. The littlei\
beast was full of oats and all the good things of this world, and
therefore, when the whip touched him, he would dance about
and shake his little ears, and run on at a tremendous pace for
twenty yards, making his mistress think that he had endured
terrible things. But, in truth, during those whippings Puck
was not the chief sufferer. Lucy had been forced to declare —
forced by the strength of her own feelings, and by the impossi-
bility of assenting to the propriety of a marriage between Lord
Lufton and Miss Grantly ^ she had been forced to declare
that she did care about Lord Lufton as much as though he
were her brother. She had said all this to herself — nay, much |
more than this — very often. But now she had said it out loud .
to her sister-in-law ; and she knew that what she had said was
remembered, considered, and had, to a certain extent, become
the cause of altered conduct. Fanny alluded very seldom to '
the Luftons in casual conversation, and never spoke about
Lord Lufton, unless when her husband made it impossible that ’
she should not speak of him. Lucy had attempted on more '
than one occasion to remedy this, by talking about the young ’
lord in a laughing and, perhaps, half-jeering way; she had
been sarcastic as to his hunting and shooting, and had boldly
attempted to say a word in joke about his love for Griselda.
But she felt that she had failed ; that she had failed altogether
as regarded Fanny ; and that as to her brother, she would
more probably be the means of opening his eyes, than have
any effect in keeping them closed. So she gave up her efforts
and spoke no further word about Lord Lufton. Her secret
had been told, and she knew that it had been told. At this
time the two ladies were left a great deal alone together in the
drawing-room at the parsonage ; more, perhaps, than had ever
yet been the case since Lucy liad been there. Lady Lufton
Impulsive 249
was away, and therefore the almost daily visit to Fraiiiley
Court was not made; and Mark in these days was a great
deal at Barch ester, having, no doubt, very onerous duties to
perform before he could be admitted as one of that chapter.
He went into, what he was pleased to call residence, almost at
once. That is, he took his month of preaching, aiding also in
some slight and very dignified way, in the general Sunday morn-
ing services. He did not exactly live at Barchester, because the
house was not ready. That at least was the assumed reason.
The chattels of Dr. Burslem, the late prebendary, had not
been as yet removed, and there was likely to be some little
delay, creditors asserting their right to them. This might
have been very inconvenient to a gentleman anxiously expecting
the excellent house which the liberality of past ages had pro-
vided for his use : but it was not so felt by Mr. Robarts. If
Dr. Burslem’b family or creditors would keep the house for
the next twelve months, he would be well pleased. And by
this arrangement he was enabled to get through his first month
of absence from the church of Framley without any notice
from Lady Lufton, seeing that Lady Lufton was in London all
the time. This also was convenient, and taught our young
prebendary to look on his new preferment more favourably
than he had hitherto done.
Fanny and Lucy were thus left much alone : and as out of
the full head the mouth speake, so is the full heart more prone
to speak at such periods of confidence as these. Lucy, when
she first thought of her own state, determined to endow her-
self with a powerful gift of reticence. She would never tell her
love, certainly ; but neither would she let concealment feed on
her damask cheek, nor would she ever be found for a moment
sitting like Patience on a monument. She would fight her
own fight bravely within her own bosom, and conquer her
enemy altogether. She would either preach, or starve, or
weary her love into subjection, and no one should be a bit
the wiser. She would teach herself to shake hands with Lord
Lufton without a quiver, and would be prepared to like his
wife amazingly — unless indeed that wife should be Griselda
Grantly. Such were her resolutions; but at the end of the
first week they were broken into shivers and scattered to the
winds. They had been sitting in the house together the whole
of one wet day ; and as Mark was to dine in Barchester with
the dean, they had had dinner early, eating with the children
almost in their laps. It is so that ladies do, when their
husbands leave them to themselves. It was getting dusk.
250 Framley Parsonage
towards evening, and they were still sitting in the drawing-
room, the children now having retired, when Mrs. Robarts
for the filth time since her visit to Hogglestock began to
exj)ress her wish that she could do some good to the
Crawleys, — to (Irace Crawley in particular, who, standing
up there at her father’s elbow, learning Greek irregular verbs,
had appeared to Mrs. Robarts to be an especial object of pity.
“ I don’t know how to set about it,” said Mrs. Robarts.
Now any allusion to that visit to Hogglestock always d»*ove
Lucy’s mind back to the consideration of the subject which
had most occupied it at the time. She at such moments
remembered how she had beaten Puck, and how in her half-
bantering but still too serious manner she had apologized for
doing so, and had explained the reason. And therefore she
did not interest herself about Grace Crawley as vividly as she
should have done. “ No ; one never does,” she said.
“ I was thinking about it all th.it day as I drove home,” snid
Fanny. ‘‘The difficulty is this : What can we do with ht*»^ ^ ”
“ Exactly,” said Lucy, remembering the very point of the
road at which she had declared that she did like Lord Lufton
very much.
“ If we could have her here for a month or so and then send
her to school ; — but I know Mr. Crawley would not allow us to
pay for^hcr schooling.”
“ I don’t think he would,” said Lucy, with her thoughts far
removed from Mr. Crawdey and his daughter Grace.
“ And then we should not know what to do with her ; should
we?”
“ No ; you would not.”
“ It would never do to have the poor girl about the house
here, with no one to teach her anything. Mark would not
teach her Greek verbs, you know.”
“ I suppose not.”
“ Lucy, you arc not attending to a woid I say to you, and I
don’t think you have for the last hour. I don’t believe you
know what I am talking about.”
“ Oh, )’es, I do— Grace Crawley ; I’ll try and teach her if you
like, only I don’t know anything myself.”
“Thai’s not what I mean at all, and you know I would not
ask you to take such a task as that on yourself. But I do think
you might talk it over with me.”
“ Might I ? very w’dl ; I will. What is it ? oh, Grace
Crawley — you want to know who is to teach her the irregular
Greek verbs. Oh. dear, F'anny, my head does ache so : pray
Impulsive 251
don’t be angry with me.” And then Lucy, throwing herself
back on the sofa, put one hand up painfully to her forehead,
and altogether gave up the battle. Mrs. Robarts was by her
side in a moment. “ Dearest Lucy, what is it makes your head
ache so often now ? you used not to have those headaches.”
“ It’s because I’m growing stupid : never mind. We will go
on about Door Grace. It would not do to have a governess,
would it ?
“ 1 can see that you are not well, Lucy,” said Mrs. Robarts,
with a look of deep concern. “ What is it, dearest ? I can sc-e
that something is the matter.”
“ Something the macter ! No, there's not ; nothing worth
talking of. Sometimes I think I’ll go back to Devonshire and
live there. I could stay with Blanche for a time, and then get
a lodging in Kxet i. ’
“Go back tj Devonshire!” and Mrs. Robarts looked as
though she thou j,ht that her sistcr-indaw was going mad. “ Why
do you want to go away from us ? This is to he your own,
own home, always now.”
“ Is it ? Then I am in a bad way. Oh dear, oh dear, what
a fool I am ! \Vhat an idiot I’ve been ! Kanny, I don’t think
I can stay here ; and I do so wish I’d never come. I do — I
do — I do, though you look at me so horribly,” and jumping
up she threw herself into her sister-in-law’s arms and began
kis.sing her violently. “ Don’t pretend to be wounded, for you
know that I love you. You know that I could live with you
all iny life, and think you were perfect — as you are; but ”
“ Has Mark said anything ? ”
Not a word, —not a ghost of a syllable. It is not Mark;
oh, Fanny ! ”
“ 1 am afraid I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Roba»*ts
in a low tremulous voice, and with deep sorrow painted on her
face.
“ Of course you do ; of course you know ; you have known
it all along ; ^ince that day in the pony carriage. I knew that
you knew it. You do not dare to mention his name ; would
not that tell me that you know it? And I, I am hypocrite
enough for Mark ; but my hypocrisy won’t pass muster before
you. And, now, had I not better go to Devonshire ? ”
“ Dearest, clearest Lucy.”
“ Was I not right about that labelling ? O heavens ! what
idiots we girls are ! That a dozen soft words should have
bowled me over like a ninepin, and left me without an inch of
ground <0 call my own. And I was so proud of my ov/n
252 Framley Parsonage
Strength ; so sure that I should never be missish, and spoony,
and sentiniental ! 1 was so determined to like him as Mark
does, or you ”
** I shall not like him at all if he has spoken words to you
that he should not have spoken.”
“ But he has not.” And then she stopped a moment to
consider. “ No, he has not. He never said a word to me
that would make you angry with him if you kne’^^ of it.
Except, perhaps, that he called me Lucy ; and that was my
fault, not his.”
“ Because you talked of soft words.”
“ Fanny, you have no idea what an absolute fool I am, what
an unutterable ass. The soft words of which I tell you were of
the kind which he speaks to you when he asks you how the
cow gets on which he sent you from Ireland, or to Mark about
Pontons shoulder. He told me that he knew papa, and that
he was at school with Mark, and that as he was such good
friends with you here at the parsonage, he must be good friends
with me too. No ; it has not been his fault. The soft words
which did the mischief were such as those. But how well his
mother understood the world ! In order to have been safe I
should not have dared to look at him.”
“ But, dearest Lucy ”
“ I know what you are going to say, and I admit it all. He
is no hero. There is nothing on earth wonderful about him.
I never heard him say a single word of wisdom, or utter a
thought that was akin to poetry. He devotes all his energies
to riding after a fox or killing poor birds, and I never heard of
his doing a single great action in my life. And yet ”
Fanny was so astounded by the way her sister-in-law went on,
that she hardly knew how to speak. “ He is an excellent son,
1 believe,” at last she said.
“ Except when he goes to Gatherum Castle. Til tell you what
he has : he has fine straight legs, and a smooth forehead, and
a good-humoured eye, and white teeth. Was it possible to see
such a catalogue of perfections, and not fall down, stricken to
the very bone ? But it was not that that did it all, Fanny. I
could have stood against that. 1 think I could at least. It
was his title that killed me. 1 had never spoken to a lord
before. Oh, me ! what a fool, what a beast I have been ! ”
And then she burst out into tears. Mrs. Robarts, to tell the
truth, could hardly understand poor Lucy’s ailment. It was
evident enough that her misery was real ; but yet she spoke of
herself and her sufferings with so much irony, with so near an
Impulsive 253
approach to joking, that it was very hard to tell how far she
was in earnest. Lucy, too, was so much given to a species of
badinage which Mrs. Robarts did not always quite understand,
that the latter was afraid sometimes to speak out what came
uppermost to her tongue. But now that Lucy was absolutely
in tears, and was almost breathless with excitement, she could
not remain silent any longer. “ Dearest Lucy, pray do not
speak in that way ; it will all come right. Things always do
come right when no one has acted wrongly.”
“ Yes, when nobody has done wrongly. That’s what papa
used to call begging the question. But I’ll tell you what,
Fanny ; I will not be beaten. I will cither kill myself or get
through it. 1 am so heartily self-ashamed that 1 owe it to
myself to fight the battle out.”
“To fight what badle, dearest?”
“ This battle. Here, now, at the present moment I could
not meet Lord Lufton. 1 should have to run like a scared
fowl if he were to show himself within the gate ; and I should
not dare to go out of the house, if 1 knew that he was in the
parish.”
“ I don’t see that, for I am sure you have not betrayed your-
self.”
“ Well, no ; as for myself, I believe I have done the lying
and the hypocrisy pretty well. But, dearest Fanny, you don’t
know half ; and you cannot and must not know.”
“ But I thought you said there had been nothing whatever
between you.”
“ Did I ? Well, to you I have not said a word that was not
true. I said that he had spoken nothing that it was wrong for
him to say. It could not be wrong But never mind.
I’ll tell you what I mean to do. I have been thinking of it for
the last week — only I shall have to tell Mark.”
“ If I were you I would tell him all.”
“ What, Mark 1 If you do, Fanny, I’ll never, never, never
speak to you again. Would you — when I have given you all my
heart in true sisterly love ? ” Mrs. Robarts had to explain that
she had not proposed to tell anything to Mark herself, and
was persuaded, moreover, to give a solemn promise that she
wpuld not tell anything to him unless specially authorized to
do so.
“ I’ll go into a home, I think,” continued Lucy. “ You
know what these homes are ? ” Mrs. Robarts assured her that
she knew very well, and then Lucy went on : “ A year ago I
should have said that 1 was the last girl in England to think of
254 Framley Parsonage
such a life, but I do believe now that it would be the best th.ng
for me. And then I'll starve myself, and flog myself, and in
that way I’ll get back my own mind and rny own soul.”
“Your own soul, Lucy!” said Mrs. Robarts, in a tone of
horror.
“ Well, my own heart, if you like it better ; but I hate to
hear myself talking about hearts. I don’t care for my heart.
I’d let it go — with this young popinjay lord or any one else, so
that I could read, and talk, and walk, and sleep, and eat, with-
out always feeling that 1 was wrong here — here — here — ” and
she pressed her hand vehemently against her side. “ What is
it that I teel, Fanny? Why am I bo weak in body that I
cannot take exercise? Why cannot I keep my mind on a
book for one moment ? Why can I not write two sentences
together ? Why should every mouthful that I eat stick in my
throat ? Oh, Fanny, is it his legs, think you, or is it his title ? ”
'rhrough all her sorrow — and she was very sorrowful — Mrs.
Robarts could not help smiling. And, indeed, there was every
now and then something even in Lucy’s look that was almost
comic. She acted the irony so well with which she strove to
throw ridicule on herself! “Do laugh at me,” she said.
“ Nothing on earth will do me so much good as that ; nothing,
unless it be starvation and a whip. If you would only tell me
that I /nust be a sneak and an idiot to care for a man because
he is good-looking and a lord ! ”
“ But that has not been the icason. There is a great deal
more in Lord Lufton than that ; and since 1 must speak, dear
Lucy, I cannot but say that I should not wonder at your being
in love with him, only — only that ”
“Only wdiat? Come, out with it. Do not mince matters,
or think that I shall be angry with you because you scold
me.”
“ Only that I should have thought that you would have been
too guarded to have — have cared for any gentleman till — till he
had shown that he cared for you.”
“ Guarded ! Yes, that’s it ; that’s just the word. But it’s
he that should have been guarded. He should have had a
fire-guard hung before him, or a love-guard, if you wall.
Guarded ! Was I not guarded, till you all would drag me out ?
Did I want to go there ? And when I was there, did I not
make a fool of myself, sitting in a corner, and thinking how
much better placed I should have been down in the servants’
hall. Lady Lufton — she dragged me out, and then cautioned
me, and then, then Why is Lady Lufton to have it all
Impulsive 255
her own way? Why am I to be sacrificed for her? I did
not want to know I^dy Lufton, or any one belonging to her.”
“ I cannot think that you have any cause to blame Lady
Lufton, nor, perhaps, to blame anybody very much.”
“ W’ell, no, it has been all my own fault ; though, for the
life of me, Fanny, going back and back, I cannot see where I
took the ^rst false step. I do not know where I went wrong.
One wrong thing 1 did, and it is the only thing that I do not
regret.”
“ What was that, Lucy ? ”
“ I told him a lie.”
Mrs. Robarts was altogether in the dark, and feeling that
she was so, she knew that she could not give counsel as a
friend or a sister. T..ucy had begun by declaring — so Mrs.
Robarts thought — that nothing had passed between her and
Lord Lufton but words of most trivial import, and yet she now
accused herself of falsehood, and declared that that falsehood
was the only thing which she did not regret !
I hope not,” said Mrs. Robarts. “If you did, you were
very unlike yourself.”
“ But I did, and were he here again, speaking to me in the
same way, I should repeat it. I know I should. If I did not,
I should have all the world on me. You would frown on me,
and be cold. My darling Fanny, how w'ould you look if I
really displeasured you ? ”
“ I don’t think you will do that, Lucy.”
“ But if I told him the truth I should, should I not ? Si)eak
now. But no, Fanny, you need not speak. It was not the
fear of you ; no, nor even of her : though Heaven knows that
her terrible glumncss would be quite unendurable.”
“ I cannot understand you, Lucy. AVhat truth or what un-
truth can you have told him, if, as you say, there has been
nothing between you but ordinary conversation ? ”
Lucy then got up from the sofa, and walked twice the
length of the room before she spoke. Mrs. Robarts had all
the ordinary curiosity — 1 was going to say, of a woman, but I
mean to say, of humanity ; and she had, moreover, all the love
of a sister. She was both curious and anxious, and remained
sitting where she was, silent, and with her eyes fixed on her
companion. “ Did I say so ? ” Lucy said at last. “ No,
Fanny, you have mistaken me — I did not say that. Ah, yes,
about the cow and the dog. All that was true. 1 was telling
you of what his soft words had been while I was becoming
such a fool. Since that he has said more.”
256 Framley Parsonage
“ What more has he said, Lucy ! ”
“ I yearn to tell you, if only I can trust you ; ” and Lucy
knelt down at the feet of Mrs. Robarts, looking up into her
face and smiling through the remaining drops of her tears. “ I
would fain tell you, but I do not know you yet — whether you
are quite true. I could be true — true against all the world, if
my friend told me. I will tell you, Fanny, if you say that you
can be true. But if you doubt yourself, if you must whisper
all to Mark — then let us be silent.”
There was something almost awful in this to Mrs. Robarts.
Hitherto, since their marriage, hardly a thought had passed
through her mind which she had not shared with her husband.
But now all this had come upon her so sudden^ly, that she was
unable to think whether it would be well that she should be-
come the depositary of such a secret — not to be mentioned to
Lucy's brother, not to be mentioned to her own husband.
But who ever yet was offered a secret and declined it ? Who
at least ever declined a love secret ? What sister could do so ?
Mrs. Robarts, therefore, gave the promise, smoothing Lucy's
hair as she did so, and kissing her forehead and looking into
her eyes, which, like a rainbow, were the brighter for her tears.
And what has he said to you, Lucy ? ”
“ VV^hat ? Only this, that he asked me to be his wife.”
“ Lord Lufton proposed to you ? ”
“Ye§; proposed to me. It is not credible, is it? You
cannot bring yourself to believe that such a thing happened,
can you ? ” And Lucy rose again to her feet, as the idea of
the scorn with which she felt that others would treat her —
with which she herself treated herself — made the blood rise to
her cheek. “ And yet it is not a dream — I think that it is not
a dream. 1 think that he really did.”
“ Think, Lucy ! ”
Well, 1 may say that I am sure.”
" A gentleman would not make you a formal proposal, and
leave you in doubt as to what he meant.”
“ Oh dear, no. There was no doubt at all of that kind —
none in the least. Mr. Smith, in asking Miss Jones to do him
the honour of becoming Mrs. Smith, never spoke more plainly.
1 was alluding to the possibility of having dreamt it all.”
“ Lucy ! ”
“ Well, it was not a dream. Here, standing here, on this
very spot — on that flower of the carpet — he begged me a
dozen times to be his wife. I wonder whether you and Mark
would let me cut it out and keep it.”
Impulsive 257
“ And what answer did you make to him ? **
“ I lied to him, and told him that I did not love him.”
“ You refused him ? ”
“ Yes ; I refused a live lord. There is some satisfaction in
having that to think of, is there not ? Fanny, was I wicked to
tell that falsehood?”
“And why did you refuse him? ”
“ Why ? Can you ask ? Think what it would have been to
go down to Framley Court, and to tell her ladyship, in the
course of conversation, that I was engaged to her son. Think
of Lady Lufton. But yet it was not that, Fanny. Had I
thought that it was good for him, that he would not have re-
pented, I would have braved anything — for his sake. Even
your frown, for vou would have frowned. You would have
thought it sacrilege for me to marry Lord Lufton 1 You know
you would.”
Mrs. Robarts hardly knew how to say what she thought, or
indeed what she ought to think. It was a matter on which
much meditation would be required before she could give
advice, and there was Lucy expecting counsel from her at that
very moment. If Lord Lufton really loved Lucy Robarts,
and was loved by Lucy Robarts, why should not they two
become man and wife ? And yet she did feel that it would be
— perhaps not sacrilege, as Lucy had said, but something
almost as troublesome. What would Lady Lufton say, or
think, or feel ? What would she say, and think, and feel as to
that parsonage from which so deadly a blow would fall upon
her ? Would she not accuse the vicar and the vicar's wife of
the blackest ingratitude? Would life be endurable at Framley
under such circumstances as those ?
“What you tell me so surprises me, that I hardly as yet
know how to speak about it,” said Mrs. Robarts.
“ It was amazing, was it not ? He must have been insane
at the time ; there can be no other excuse made for him. I
wonder whether there is anything of that sort in the family ? ”
“ What ; madness ? ” said Mrs. Robarts, quite in earnest.
“Well, don't you think he must have been mad when such
an idea as that came into his head? But you don’t believe it ;
I 'can see that. And yet it is as true as heaven. Standing ex-
actly here, on this spot, he said that he would persevere till I
accepted his love. I wonder what made me specially observe
that both his feet were within the lines of that division.” ^
“ And you would not accept his love ? ”
'*No; I would have nothing to say to it. Look you, I stood
258 Framley Parsonage
here, and putting my hand upon my heart — for he bade me
to do that — I said that I could not love him.”
“ And what then ? ”
” He went away — with a look as though he were heart-
broken. He crept away slowly, saying that he was the most
v/retched soul alive. For a minute I believed him, and could
almost have called him back ; but no, Fanny, do not think
that I am over proud, or conceited about my conquest. He
had not reached the gate before he was thanking God for his
escape.”
That I do not believe.”
“ But 1 do ; and I thought of Lady Lufton too. How
could I bear that she should scorn me, and accuse me of steal-
ing her son’s heart ? I know that it is better as it is ; but tell
me — is a falsehood always wrong, or can it be possible that
the end should justify the means? Ought I to have told him
the truth, and to have let him know that I could almost
kiss tlie ground on which he stood ? ”
This was a question for the doctors which Mrs. Robarts
would not take upon herself to answer. She would not make
that falsehood matter of accusation, but neither would she
pronounce for it any absolution. In that matter Lucy must
regulate her own conscience.
“ And what shall 1 do next ? ” said Lucy, still speaking in a
tone that was half tragic and half jeering.
“ Do ? ” said Mrs. Robarts.
“ Yes, something must be done. If I were a man I should
go to Switzerland, of course ; or, as the case is a bad one, per-
haps as far as Hungary. What is it tliat girls do ? they don't
die now-a-days, I believe.”
“ Lucy, I do not believe that you care for him one jot. If
you were in love you would not speak of it like that.”
“ There, there. That’s my only hope. If I could laugh at
myself till it had become incredible to you, I also, by degrees,
should cease to believe that I had cared for him. But, Fanny,
it is very hard. If 1 were to starve, and rise before daybreak,
and pinch myself, or do some nasty w'ork, — clean the pots and
pans and the candlesticks; that I think would do the most
good. I have got a piece of sack-cloth, and I mean to wear that,
when I have made it up.”
“ You are joking now, Lucy, I know.”
“ No, by my word ; not in the spirit of what I am saying.
How shall I act upon my heart, if I do not do it through the
blood and the flesh ? ”
South Audley Street 259.
“ Do you not pray that God will give you strength to bear
these troubles ? ''
“ But how is one to word one’s prayer, or how even to word
one’s wishes ? I do not know what is the wrong that I have
done. I say it boldly ; in this matter I cannot see my own
fault. I have simply found that I have been a fool.”
It was .low quite dark in the room, or would have been so
to any one entering it afresh. They had remained there
talking till their eyes had become accustomed to the gloom,
and would still have remained, had they not suddenly been
disturbed by the sound of a horse’s feet.
“ There is Mark,” said Fanny, jumping up and running to
the bell, that lights might be ready when he should enter.
‘*I thought he remained in Barchester to-night.”
“And so did I, but he said it might be doubtful. What
shall w'e do if he has not dined?” That, I believe, is always
the first thought in the mind of a good wife when her husband
returns home. Has he had his dinner ? What can I give him
for dinner? Will he like lus dinner? Oh dear, oh dear!
there is nothing in the house but cold inutlon. But on this
occasion the lord of the mansion had dined, and came home
radiant with good-humour, and owing, perhaps, a little of his
radiance to the dean’s claret. “ 1 have told them,” said he,
“ that they may keep possession of the house for the next two
months, and they have agreed to that arrangement.”
“ That is very pleasant,” said Mrs. Robaris.
“And I don’t think we shall have so much trouble about
the dilapidations after all.”
“I am very glad of that,” said Mrs. Robarts. But never-
theless she was thinking much more of Lucy than of the hou.se
in Barchester Close.
“You won’t betray me,” said Lucy, as she gave her sister-in-
law a parting kiss at night.
“ No ; not unless you give me permission.”
“ Ah ; I shall never do that.”
CHAPTER XXVII
SOUTH AUDLEY STREET
The Duke of Omnium had notified to Mr. Fothergill h;s wish
that some arrangement should be made about the Chaldicotes
mortgages, and Mr. Fothergill had understood what the duke
meant as well as though his instructions had been written down
with all a lawyer’s verbosity. The duke’s meaning was this, that
26 o Framley Parsonage
Chaldicotes was to be swept up and garnered, and made part
and parcel of the Gatherum property. It had seemed to the
duke that that affair between his friend and Miss Dunstable
was hanging hre, and, therefore, it would be well that
Chaldicotes should be swept up and garnered. And, moreover,
tidings had come into the western division of the county that
young Frank Gresham of Boxall Hill w'as in treaty with the
Government for the purchase of all that Crown property called
the Chace of Chaldicotes. It had been offered to the duke, but
the duke had given no definite answer. Had he got his money
back from Mr. Sowerby he could have forestalled Mr.
Gresham ; out now that did not seem to be probable, and his
grace was resolved that either the one property or the other
should be duly garnered. Therefore Mr. Fothergill went up
to town, and therefore Mr. Sowerby was, most unwillingly,
compelled to have a business interview with Mr. Fothergill.
In the meantime, since last we saw him, Mr. Sowerby had
learned from his sister the answer which Miss Dunstable had
given to his proposition, and knew that he had no further hope
in that direction. There was no further hope thence of absolute
deliveraace, but there had been a tender of money services.
To give Mr. Sowerby his due, he had at once declared that it
would be quite out of the question that he should now receive
any assistance of that sort from Miss Dunstable ; but his sister
had explained to him that it would be a mere business trans-
action ; that Miss Dunstable would receive her interest ; and
that, if she would be content with four per cent., whereas
the duke received five, and other creditors six, seven, eight,
ten, and heaven only knows how much more, it might be well
for all parties. He, himself, understood, as well as Fothergill
had done, what was the meaning of the duke’s message.
Chaldicotes was to be gathered up and garnered, as had been
done with so many another fair property lying in those regions.
It was to be swallowed whole, and the master was to walk out
from his old family hall, to leave the old woods that he loved,
to give up utterly to another the parks and paddocks and
pleasant places which he had known from his earliest infancy,
and owned from his earliest manhood.
There can be nothing more bitter to a man than such a
surrender. What, compared to this, can be the loss of wealth
to one who has himself made it, and brought it together, but
has never actually seen it with his bodily eyes ? Such wealth
has come by one chance, and goes by another : the loss of it is
part of the game which the man is playing ; and if he cannot
South Audley Street 261
lose as well as win, he is a poor, weak, cowardly creature.
Sucn men, as a rule, do know how to bear a mind fairly equal
to adversity. But to have squandered the acres which have
descended from generation to generation ; to be the member
of one’s family that has ruined that family ; to have swallowed
up in one’s own maw all that should have graced one’s children,
and one’s grandchildren I It seems to me that the misfortunes of
this world can hardly go beyond that ! Mr. Sowerby, in spite
of his recklessness and that dare-devil gaiety which he knew so
well how to wear and use, felt all this as keenly as any man
could feel it. It had been absolutely his own fault. The acres
had come to him all his own, and now, before his death, every
one of them would have gone bodily into that greedy maw.
The duke had bought up nearly all the debts which had been
secured upon the property, and now could make a clean sweep
of it. Sowerby, when he received that message from Mr.
Fothergill, kr^ew well that this was intended; and he knew
well also, that when once he should cease to be Mr. Sowerby
of Chaldicotes, he need never again hope to be returned as
member for West Barsetshire. This world would for him be all
over. And what must such a man feel when he reflects that
this world is for him all over? On the morning in question he
went to his appointment, still bearing a cheerful countenance.
Mr. Fothergill, when in town on such business as this, always
had a room at his service in the house of Messrs. Gumption
and Gagebee, the duke’s London law agents, and it was thither
that Mr. Sowerby had been summoned. The house of business
of Messrs. Gumption and Gagebee was in South Audley Street ;
and it may be said that there was no spot on the whole earrh
which Mr. Sowerby so hated as he did the gloomy, dingy back
sitting-room upstaiis in that house. He had been there very
often, but had never been there without annoyance. It was a
horrid torture-chamber, kept for such dread purposes as these,
and no doubt had been furnished, and papered, and curtained
with the express object of finally breaking down the spirits of
such poor country gentlemen as chanced to be involved.
Everything was of a brown crimson, — of a crimson that had
become brown. Sunlight, real genial light of the sun, never
made its way there, and no amount of candles could illumine
the gloom of that brownness. The windows were never washed ;
the ceiling was of a dark brown ; the old Turkey carpet was
thick with dust, and brown withal. The ungainly office-table,
in the middle of the room, had been covered with black leather,
but that was now brown. There was a bookcase full of dingy
262 Framley Parsonage
brown law books in a recess on one side of the fireplace, but
no one had touched them for years, and over the chimney-
piece hung some old legal pedigree table, black with soot.
Such was the room which Mr. Fothergill always used in the
business house of Messrs. Gumption and Gagebee, in South
Audley Street, near to Park Lane.
I once heard this room spoken of by an old friend of mine,
one Mr. Gresham of Greshamsbury, the father of Frank
Gresham, who was now about to purchase that part of the
Chace of Chaldicotes which belonged to the Crown. He also
had had evil days, though now happily they were past and
gone ; and he, too, had sat in that room, and listened to the
voice of men who were powerful over his property, and intended
to use that power. The idea which he left on my mind was
much the same as that which I had entertained, when a boy, of
a certain room in the castle of Udolpho. There was a chair
in that Udolpho room in which those who sat were dragged out
limb by limb, the head one way and the legs another; the
fingers were dragged off from the hands, and the teeth out from
the jaws, and the hair off the head, and the flesh from the bones,
and the joints from their sockets, till there was nothing left but
a lifeless trunk seated in the chair. Mr. Gresham, as he told
me, always sat in the same seat, and the tortures he suffered
when so seated, the dislocations of his prop* Tty which he was
forced to discuss, the operations on his very self which he was
forced to witness, made me regard that room as worse than the
chamber of Udolpho. He, luckily — a rare instance of good
fortune — had lived to see all his bones and joints put together
again, and flourishing soundly ; but he never could speak of the
room without horror. “No consideration on earth,” he once
said to me, very solemnly, — “1 say none, should make me
again enter that room.” And indeed this feeling was so strong
with him, that from the day when his affairs took a turn he
would never even walk down South Audley Street. On the
morning in question into this torture-chamber Mr. Sowerby
went, and there, after some two or three minutes, he was joined
by Mr. Fothergill.
Mr. Fothergill was, in one respect, like to his friend Sowerby.
He enacted two altogether different persons on occasions which
were altogether different. Generally speaking, with the world
at Large, he was a jolly, rollicking, popular man, fond of eating
and drinking, known to be devoted to the duke’s interests, and
supposed to be somewhat unscrupulous, or at any rate hard,
when they were concerned ; but in other respects a good-natured
South Audley Street 263
fellow : and there was a report about that he had once lent
somebody money, without charging him interest or taking
security. On the present occasion Sowerby saw at a glance
that he had come thither with all the aptitudes and appur-
tenances of his business about him. He walked into the room
with a short, quick step ; there was no smile on his face as he
shook hi ids with his old friend ; he brought with him a box
laden with papers and parchments, and he had not been a
minute in the room before he was seated in one of the old
dingy chairs. “ How long have you been in town, Fothergill ? ”
said Sowerby, still stanciing with his back against the chimney.
He had resolved on only one thing — that nothing should induce
him to touch, look at, or listen to any of those papers. He
knew well enough that no good would come of that. He also
had his own lawyei, to see that he was pilfered according to rule.
“ How long ? Since the day before yesterday. I never was
so busy in my life. The duke, as usual, wants to have every-
thing clone at once.”
“ If he wants to have all that I owe him paid at once, he is
like to be out in his reckoning.''
“Ah, well; I'm glad you are ready to come quickly to
business, because it's always best. Won't you come and sit
down here ? ''
“ No, thank you ; I’ll stand.”
“ But we shall have to go through these figures, you know.”
“Not a figure, Fothergill. What good would it do? None
to me, and none to you either, as I take it. If there is any-
thing wrong. Potter's fellows will find it out. What is it the
duke Wyants ? ''
“ Well; to tell the truth, he wants his money.”
“ In one sense, and that the main sense, he has got it. He
gets his interest regularly, does not he? ''
“ Pretty well for that, seeing how limes are. But, Sowerby,
that’s nonsense. You understand the duke as well as I do,
and you know very w'ell what he w^nts. He has given you
time, and if you had taken any steps towards getting the
money, you might have saved the property.”
“ A hundred and eighty thousand pounds ! What steps
could I take to get that ? Fly a bill, and let Tozer have it to
get cash on it in the city 1 ”
“ We hoped you were going to marry.”
“That's all off.”
“ Then I don't think you can blame the duke for looking
for his own. It does not suit him to have so large a sum
264 Framley Parsonage
Standing out any longer. You see, he wants land, and will
have it. Had you paid off what you owed him, he would
have purchased the Crown property ; and now, it seems young
Gresham has bid against him, and is to have it. This has riled
him, and I may as well tell you fairly, that he is determined to
have either money or marbles.”
“ You mean that I am to be dispossessed.”
“ Well, yos ; if you choose to call it so. My instructions are
to foreclose at once.”
“ Then I must say the duke is treating me most uncom-
monly ill.”
“ \Vell, Sowerby, I can’t see it.”
“ I can, though. He has his money like clockwork ; and
he has bought up these debts from persons who would have
never disturbed me as long as they got their interest.”
“ Haven’t you had the seat ? ”
“ The seat ! and is it expected that I am to pay for that ? ”
“ I don’t see that any one is asking you to pay for it. You
are like a great many other people that I know. You want to eat
your cake and have it. You have been eating it for the last
twenty years, and now you think yourself very ill used because
the duke wants to have his turn.”
“ I shall think myself very ill used if he sells me out — worse
than iir used. 1 do not want to use strong language, but it will
be more than ill usage. 1 can hardly believe that he really
means to treat me in that way.”
“ It is M y hard that he should want his own money.”
“ It is nut his money that he wants. It is my property."
“ And has he not paid for it ? Have you not had the price
of your property? Now, Sowerby, it is of no use for yon to be
angry ; you have known for the last three years wdiut was
coming on you as well as I did. Why should the duke lend
you money without an object ? Of course he has his own
views. But I do say tlus ; he has not hurried you ; and had
you been able to do anything to save the place you might have
done it. You have had time enough 10 look about you.”
Sowerby still stood in the place in which he had first fixed
himself, and now for awhile he remained silent. His face was
very stern, and there was in his countenance none of those
winning looks which often told so powerfully with his young
friends,- — which had caught Lord Lufton and had charmed
Mark Robarts. The world w^as going against him, and things
around him were coming to an end. He was beginning to
perceive that he had in truth eaten his cake, and that there was
South Audley Street 265
now little left for him to do, — unless he chose to blow out his
brains. He had said to Lord Lufton that a man’s back should
be broad enough for any burden with which he himself might
load it. Could he now boast that his back was broad enough
and strong enough for this burden ? But he had even then, at
that bitter moment, a strong remembrance that ft behoved him
still to L 3 a man. His final ruin was coming on him, and he
would soon be swept away out of the knowledge and memory of
those with whom he had lived. But, nevertheless, he would
bear himself well to the last. It was true that he had made his
own bed, and he understood the justice which required him
to lie upon it.
During all this time Fothergill occupied himself with the
papers. He continued to turn over one sheet after another, as
though he were deeply engaged in money considerations and
calculations. But, in truth, during all that time he did not
read a word. There was nothing there for liim to read. The
reading and the writing, and the arithmetic in such matters, are
done by underlings — not by such big men as Mr. Fothergill.
His business w^as to tell Sowerby that he was to go. All those
records there were of very little use. The duke had the
power ; Sowerby knew that the duke had the power ; and
Fothergill’s business was to explain that the duke meant to
exercise his power. He was used to the work, and went on
turning over the papers and pretending to read them, as
though his doing so were of the greatest moment. “ 1 shall
see the duke myself,” Mr. Sowerby said at last, and there was
something almost dreadful in the sound of his voice.
** You know that the duke won’t see you on a matter of this
kind. He never speaks to any one about money ; you know
that as well as I do.”
“By , but he shall speak to me. Never speak to any
one about money I Why is he ashamed to speak of it when he
loves it so dearly ? He shall see me.”
“ I have nothing further to say, Sowerby. Of course I
shan’t ask his grace to see you ; and if you force your way in
on him you know what will happen. It won’t be my doing if
he is set against you. Nothing that you say to me in that
way, — nothing that anybody ever says, — goes beyond myself.”
“ 1 shall manage the matter through my own lawyer,” said
Sowerby; and then he took his hat, and, without uttering
another word, left the room.
We know not what may be the nature of that eternal punish-
ment to which those will be doomed who shall be judged to
266 Framley Parsonage
have been evil at the last ; but methinks that no more terrible
torment can be devised than the memory of self-imposed ruin.
What wretchedness can exceed that of remembering from day
to day that the race has been all run, and has been altogether
lost ; that the last chance has gone, and has gone in vain ; that
the end has come, and with it disgrace, contempt, and self-scorn
—disgrace that never can be redeemed, contempt that never
can be removed, and self-scorn that will eat into one's ^’itals for
ever? Mr. Sowerby was now fifty; he had enjoyed his chances
in life ; and as he walked back, up South Audley Street, he
could not but think of the uses he had made of them. He had
fallen into the possession of a fine property on the attainment
of his manhood ; he had been endowed with more than average
gifts of intellect ; never-failing health had been given to him,
and a vision fairly clear in discerning good from evil ; and now
to what a pass had he brought himself! And that man
Folhergill had put all this before him in so terribly clear a light !
Now that the day for his final demolishment had arrived, the
necessity that he should be demolished — finished away at once,
out of sight and out of mind — had not been softened, or, as it
were, half hidden, by an ambiguous phrase. “You have had
your cake, and eaten it — eaten it greedily. Is not that suffi-
cient for you ? Would you eat your cake twice ? Would you
have a .succession of cakes? No, my friend; there is no
succession of these cakes for those who eat them greedily.
Your proposition is not a fair one, and we who have the whip-
hand of you will not listen to it. Be good enough to vanish.
Permit yourself to be swept quietly into the dunghill. All that
there was about you of value has departed from you ; and allow
me to say that you are now — rubbish." And then the ruthless
besom comes with irresistible rush, and the rubbish is swept into
the pit, there to be hidden for ever from the sight. And the pity
of it is this — that a man, if he will only restrain his greed, may eat
his cake and yet have it ; ay, and in so doing will have twice
more the flavour of the cake than he who with gormandizing
maw will devour his dainty all at once. Cakes in this world
will grow by being fed on, if only the feeder be not too insatiate.
On all which wisdom Mr. Sowerby pondered with sad heart
and very melancholy mind as he walked away from the premises
of Messrs. Gumption and Gagebee. His intention had been
to go down to the House after leaving Mr. Fothergill, but the
prospect of immediate ruin had been too much for him, and he
knew that he was not fit to be seen at once among the haunts
of men. And he had intended also to go down to Barchester
Dr. Thorne 267
early on the following morning — only for a few hours, that he
might make further arrangements respecting that bill which
Robarts had accepted for him. That bill — the second one —
hpJ now become due, and Mr. Tozer had been with him.
“ Now it ain’t no use in life, Mr. Sowerby,” Tozer had said.
“ I ain’t got the paper myself, nor didn’t ’old it, not two hours.
It went away through Tom Tozer ; you knows that, Mr.
Sowerby, as well as I do.” Now, whenever Tozer, Mr. Sowerby’s
Tozer, spoke of Tom Tozer, Mr. Sowerby knew that seven devils
were being evoked, each worse than the first devil. Mr. Sowerby
did feel something like sincere regard, or rather love, for that
poor parson whom he had inveigled into mischief, and would
fain save him, if it were possible, from the Tozer fang. Mr.
Forrest, of the Barcbostcr bank, would probably take up that
last five hundn-d pound l.'ill, on behalf of Mr. Robarts, — only
it would be needful that he, Sowerby, should run down and
see that this was properly done. As to the other bill — the
former and lesser one — as to that. Mr, Tozer would probably
be quiet for a while. Such had been Sowerby’s programme for
these two days; but now — what further possibility was there
now that he should care for Robarts, or any other human
being; he that was to be swept at once into the dung -heap?
In this frame of mind he walked up South Audley Stieet, and
crossed one side of Grosvenor Square, and went almost
mechanically into Green Street. At the farther end of Green
Street, near to Park Lane, lived Mr. and Mrs, Harold Smith.
CHAPTER XXVIII
PR. THORNE
When Miss Dunstable met her friends the Gresliams —
young Frank (iresham and his wife — at Gatherum Castle, she
immediately asked after one Dr. 'Fhorne, who was Mrs.
Gresham’s uncle. Dr. Thorne was an old bachelor, in whom
both as a man and a doctor Miss Dunstable was inclined to
place much confidence. Not that she had ever entrusted the
cure of her bodily ailments to Dr. Thorne — for she kept
a doctor of her own, Dr. Easyman, for this purpose — and it
may moreover be said that she rarely had bodily ailments
requiring the care of any doctor. But she always spoke of Dr.
Thorne among her friends as a man of wonderful erudition and
judgment ; and had once or twice asked and acted on his
advice in matters of much moment. Dr. Thorne w'as not a
man accustomed to the London world ; he kept no house there,
268 Framley Parsonage
and seldom even visited the metropolis ; but Miss Dunstable
had known him at Greshamsbury, where he lived, and there had
for some months past grown up a considerable intimacy between
them. He was now staying at the house of his niece, Mrs.
Gresham ; but the chief reason of his coming up had been
a desire expressed by Miss Dunstable, that he should do so.
She had wished for his advice ; and at the instigation of his
niece he had visited London and given it. The special piece
of business as to which Dr. Thorne had thus been summoned
from the bedsides of his country patients, and especially from
the bedside of Lady Arabella Gresham, to whose son his niece
was married, related to certain large money interests, as to
which one might have imagined that Dr. Thorne's advice would
not be peculiarly valuable. He had never been much versed in
such matters on his own account, and was knowing neither
in the ways of the share market, nor in the prices of land. But
Miss Dunstable was a lady accustomed to have her own way,
and to be indulged in her own wishes without being called on
to give adequate reasons for them. “ My dear," she had said
to young Mrs, Gresham, “if your uncle don't come up to
London now, when I make such a point of it, I shall think that
he is a bear and a savage ; and I certainly will never speak to
him again, — or to Frank — or to you ; so you had better see to
it." Mrs. Gresham had not probably taken her friend's threat
as meaning quite all that it threatened. Miss Dunstable
habitually used strong language ; and those who knew her well,
generally understood when she was to be taken as expressing her
thoughts by figures of speech. In this instance she had not
meant it all ; but, nevertheless, Mrs. Gresham had used violent
influence in bringing the poor doctor up to London. “ Besides,”
said Miss Dunstable, “ I have resolved on having the doctor
at my conversazione, and if he won't come of himself, I shall
go down and fetch him. I have set my heart on trumping my
dear friend Mrs. Proudie’s best card ; so 1 mean to get every-
body ! ”
The upshot of all this was, that the doctor did come up to
town, and remained the best part of a week at his niece’s
house in Portman Square — to the great disgust of the Lady
Arabella, who conceived that she must die if neglected for
three days. As to the matter of business, I have no doubt
but that he was of great use. He was possessed of common
sense and' an honest purpose ; and I am inclined to think that
they are often a sufficient counterpoise to a considerable
amount of worldly experience. If one could have the worldly
Dr. Thorne 269
experience also ! True ! but then it is so difficult to get
everything. But with that special matter of business we need
not have any further concern. We will presume it to have
been discussed and completed, and will now dress ourselves
for Miss Dunstable’s conversazione. But it must not be
supposed that she was so poor in genius as to call her party
openly by a name borrowed for the nonce from Mrs. Proudie.
It was on!/ among her specially intimate friends, Mrs. Harold
Smith and some few dozen others, that she indulged in this
little joke. There had been nothing in the least pretentious
about the card with which she summoned her friends to
her house on this occasion. She had merely signified in some
ordinary way, that she would be glad to see them as soon after
nine o’clock on Thursday evening, the instant, as might
be convenient. But all the world understood that all the
world was to be gathered together at Miss Dunstable’s house
on the night in question — that an effort was to be made to
bring together people of all classes, gods and giants, saints and
sinners, those rabid through the strength of their morality, such
as our dear friend Lady Lufton, and those who were rabid in
the opposite direction, such as Lady Hartletop, the Duke of
Omnium, and Mr. Sowerby. An orthodox martyr had been
caught from the East, and an oily latter-day St. Paul, from the
other side of the water — to the honor and amazement of Arch-
deacon Grantly, who had come up all the way from Plumstead
to be present on the occasion. Mrs. Grantly also had
hankered to be there ; but when she heard of the presence of
the latter-day St. Paul, she triumphed loudly over her husband,
who had made no offer to take her. That Lords Brock and
De Terrier were to be at the gathering was nothing. The
pleasant king of the gods and the courtly chief of the giants
could shake hands with each other in any house with the
greatest pleasure ; but men were to meet who, in reference to
each other, could shake nothing but their heads or their hsts.
Supplehouse was to be there, and Harold Smith, who now
hated his enemy with a hatred surpassing that of women — or
even of politicians. The minor gods, it was thought, would
congregate together in one room, very bitter in their present
state of banishment ; and the minor giants in another, terribly
loUd in their triumph. That is the fault of the giants, who,
otherwise, are not bad fellows ; they are unable to endure the
weight of any temporary success. When attempting Olympus
— and this work of attempting is doubtless their natural
condition — they scratch and scramble, diligently using both
270 Framley Parsonage
toes and fingers, with a mixture of good-humoured virulence
and self-satisfied industry that is gratifying to all parties. But
whenever their efforts are unexpectedly, and for themselves
unfortunately successful, they are so taken aback that they
lose the power of behaving themselves with even gigantesque
propriety.
Such, so great and so various, was to be the intended
gathering at Miss Dunstable's house. She herself laughed,
and quizzed herself — speaking of the affair to Mrs. Harold
Smith as though it were an excellent joke, and to Mrs. Proudie
as though she were simply emulous of rivalling those world-
famous assemblies in Gloucester Place ; but the town at large
knew that an effort was being made, and it was supposed that
even Miss Dunstable was somewhat nervous. In spite of her
excellent joking it was presumed that she would be unhappy if
she failed. To Mrs. Frank Gresham she did speak with some
little seriousness. “ But why on earth should you give your-
self all this trouble ? ” that lady had said, when Miss Dunstable
owned that she was doubtful, and unhappy in her doubts, as to
the coming of one of the great colleagues of Mr. Supplehouse.
“ When such hundreds are coming, big wigs and little wigs of
all shades, what can it matter whether Mr. Towers be there
or not ? ” But Miss Dunstable had answered almost with a
screech, —
“ My- dear, it will be nothing w^ithout him. You don't
understand ; but the fact is that Tom Towers is everybody and
everything at present." And then, by no means for the first
time, Mrs. Gresham began to lecture her friend as to her
vanity; in answer to >Nhich lecture Miss Dunstable myste-
riously hinted, that if she were only allowed her full swing on
this occasion, — if all the world would now indulge her, she
would She did not quite say what she would do, but the
inference drawn by Mrs. Gresham was this : that if the incense
now offered on the altar of Fashion were accepted, Miss
Dunstable would at once abandon the pomps and vanities of
this wicked world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh.
“ But the doctor will slay, my dear ? I hope 1 may look on
that as fixed.” Miss Dunstable, in making this demand on the
doctor's time, showed an energy quite equal to that with which
she invoked the gods that Tom Towers might not Ije absent.
Now, to tell the truth, Dr. Thorne had at first thought it very
unreasonable that he should be asked to remain up in London
in order that he might be present at an evening party, and had
for a while pertinaciously refused ; but when he learned that
Dr. Thorne 271
three or four prime ministers were expected, and that it was
possible that even Torn Towers might be there in the flesh, his
philosophy also liad become weak, and he had written to Lady
Arabella to say that his prolonged absence for two days further
must be endured, and that the mild tonics, morning and even-
ing, might be continued. But why should Miss Dunstable be
so anxious that Dr. Thorne should be present on this grand
occasion ? \\’hy, indeed, should she be so frequently inclined
to summon him away from his country practice, his compound-
ing board, and his useful ministrations to rural ailments ? The
doctor w'as connected with her by no ties of blood. Their
friendship, intimate as it was, had as yet been but of short date.
She was a very rich woman, capable of purchasmg all manner of
advice and good counsel, whereas, he was so far from being
rich, that any ccntinard disturbance to his practice might be
inconvenient to him. Nevertheless, Miss Dunstable seemed to
have no more compunction in making calls upon his time, than
she might have felt had he been her brother. No ideas on
this matter suggested themselves to the doctor himself. He
was a simple-minded man, taking things as they came, and
especiall) so taking things that came pleasantly. He liked
Miss Dunstable, and was gratified by her friendship, and did
not think of asking himself whether she had a right to put him to
trouble and inconvenience. But such ideas did occur to Mrs.
Gresham, the doctor's niece. Had Miss Dunstable any object,
and if so, what object ? Was it simply veneration for the
doctor, or was it caprice ? Was it eccentricity — or could it
possibly be love ? In speaking of the ages of these two friends
it may be said in round terms that the lady was well past forty,
aud that the gentleman was well past fifty. Under such cir-
cumstances could it be love ? The lady, too, was one who had
had offers almost by the dozen, — offers from men of rank, from
men of fashion, and from men of power ; from men endowed
with personal attractions, with pleasant manners, with cultivated
tastes, and with eloquent tongues. Not only had she loved
none such, but by none such had she been cajoled into an
idea that it was possible that she could love them. That Dr.
Thorne's tastes were cultivated, and his manners pleasant, might
prqhably be admitted by three or four old friends in the country
who valued him ; but the world in London, that world to which
Miss Dunstable was accustomed, and which was apparently
becoming dearer to her day by day, would not have regarded
the doctor as a man likely to become the object of a lady's
passion. But nevertheless the idea did occur to Mrs. Gresham.
272 Framley Parsonage
She had been brought up at the elbow of this country practi*
tioner ; she had lived with him as though she had been his
daughter ; she had been for years the ministering angel of his
household ; and, till her heart had opened to the natural love
of womanhood, all her closest sympathies had been with him.
In her eyes the doctor was all but perfect ; and it did not seem
to her to be out of the question that Miss Dunstable should
have fallen in love with her uncle.
Miss Dunstable once said to Mrs. Harold Smith tha^ it was
possible that she might marry, the only condition then ex-
pressed being this, that the man elected should be one who
was quite indifferent as to money. Mrs. Harold Smith, who,
by her friends, was presumed to know the world with tolerable
accuracy, had replied that such a man Miss Dunstable would
never find in this world. All this had passed in that half-
comic vein of banter which Miss Dunstable so commonly used
when conversing with such friends as Mrs. Harold Smith ; but
she had spoken words of the same import more than once to
Mrs. Gresham ; and Mrs, Gresham, putting two and two
together as women do, had made four of the little sum ; and
as the final result of the calculation, determined that Miss
Dunstable would marry Dr. Thorne if Dr, Thorne would ask
her. And then Mrs, Gresham began to bethink herself of two
other questions. Would it be well that her uncle should marry
Miss Dmistable ? and if so, would it be possible to induce him
to make such a proposition ? After the consideration of many
pros and cons, and the balancing of very various arguments,
Mrs. Gresham thought that the arrangement on the whole
might not be a bad one. For Miss Dunstable she herself had
a sincere affection, which was shared by her husband. She
had often grieved at the sacrifices Miss Dunstable made to the
world, thinking that her friend was falling into vanity, indiffer-
ence, and an ill mode of life^ but such a marriage as this
would probably cure all that. And then as to Dr. Thorne
himself, to whose benefit were of course applied Mrs.
Gresham's most earnest thoughts in this matter, she could not
but think that he would be happier married than he was single.
In point of temper, no woman could stand higher than Miss
Dunstable; no one had ever heard of her being in an ill
humour; and then though Mrs. Gresham was gifted with a
mind which was far removed from being mercenary, it was
impossible not to feel that some benefit must accrue from the
bride’s wealth. Mary Thorne, the present Mrs. Frank Gresham,
had herself been a great heiress. Circumstances had weighted
Dr. Thorne 273
her hand with enormous possessions, and hitherto she had not
realized the truth of that lesson which would teach us to
believe that happiness and riches are incompatible. Therefore
she resolved that it might be well if the doctor and Miss Dun-
stable were brought together. But could the doctor be
induced to make such an offer ? Mrs. Gresham acknowledged
a terrible difficulty in looking at the matter from that point of
view. Her uncle was fond of Miss Dunstable; but she was
sure that an idea of such a marriage had never entered his head ;
that it would be very difficult — almost impossible — to create
such an idea ; and that if the idea were there, the doctor could
hardly be instigated to make the proposition. Looking at the
matter as a whole, she feared that the match was not prac-
ticable.
On the day of Miss Dunstable^s party, Mrs. Gresham and
her uncle dined together alone in Portman Square. Mr.
Gresham was not yet in parliament, but an almost immediate
vacancy was expected in his division of the county, and it was
known that no one could stand against him with any chance of
success. This threw him much among the politicians of his
party — those giants, namely, whom it would be his business to
support — and on this account he was a good deal away from his
own house at the present moment. “ Politics make a terrible
demand on a man’s time,” he said to his wife ; and then went
down to dine at his club in Pall Mall, with sundry other young
philogeants. On men of that class politics do make a great
demand — at the hour of dinner and thereabouts.
“What do you think of Miss Dunstable?” said Mrs.
Greshnm to her uncle, as they sat together over their coffee.
She added nothing to the question, but asked it in all its
baldness.
“ 'I'hink about her ! ” said the doctor ; “ well, Mary, what do
you think about her ? I daresay we think the same.”
“ But that’s not the question. What do you think about
her ? Do you think she’s honest ? ”
“ Honest ? Oh, yes, certainly — very honest, I should
say.”
“And good-tempered?”
Uncommonly good-tempered.”
“ And affectionate ? ”
“Well, yes; and affectionate. 1 should certainly say that
she is affectionate.”
“ I’m sure she’s clever.”
“ Yes, I think she’s clever.”
274 Framley Parsonage
“And, and and womanly in her feelings.” Mrs. Gresham
felt that she could not quite say lady-like, though she would
fain have done so had she dared.
“ Oh, certainly,” said the doctor. “ But, Mary, why are
you dissecting Miss Dunstable’s character with so much in-
genuity ? ”
“ Well, uncle, I will tell you why ; because — ” and Mrs.
Gresham, while she was speaking, got up from her chair, and
going round the table to her uncle’s side, put her arm round his
neck till her face was close to his, and then continued speaking
as she stood behind him out of his sight — “ because — I think
that Miss Dunstable is — is very fond of you ; and that it
would make her happy if you would — ask her to be your
wife.”
“ Mary ! ” said the doctor, turning round with an endeavour
to look his niece in the face.
“ 1 am quite in earnest, uncle — quite in earnest. From little
things that she has said, and little things that I have seen, I
do believe what 1 now tell you.”
“ And you w'ant me to ”
“Dear uncle; my own one darling uncle, I want you only
to do that which will make you — make you happy. What is
Miss Dunstable to me compared to you ? ” And then she
stooped down and kissed him. The doctor was apparently too
much astounded by the intimation given him to make any
further immediate reply. His niece, seeing this, left him that
she might go and dress ; and when they met again in the
drawing-room Frank Gresham was with them.
CHAPTER XXIX
MISS DUNSTABLE AT HOME
Miss Dunstable did not look like a love-lorn maiden, as
she stood in a small ante-ch.amber at the top of her drawing-
room stairs, receiving her guests. Her house was one of those
abnormal mansions, which are to be seen here and there in
London, built in compliance rather with the rules of rural
architecture, than with those which usually govern the erection
of city streets and town terraces. It stood back from its
brethren, and alone, so that its owner could walk round it. It
was approached by a short carriage-way ; the chief door was in
the back-of the building; and the front of the house looked
on to one of the parks. Miss Dunstable in procuring it had
had her usual luck. It had been built by an eccentric
Miss Dunstable at Home 275
millionaire at an enormous cost; and the eccentric millionaire,
after living in it for twelve months, had declared that it did not
possess a single comfort, and that it was deficient in most of
those details which, m point of house accommodation, are
necessary to the very existence of man. Consequently the
mansion was sold, and Miss Dunstable was the purchaser.
Cranbourn House it had been named, and its present owner
had made no change in this respect ; but the world at large
very generally called it Ointment Hall, and Miss Dunstable
herself as frequently used that name for it as any other. It
was impossible to quiz Miss Dunstable with any success,
because she always joined in the joke herself. Not a word
further had passed between Mrs. Gresham and Dr. Thorne on
the subject of their last conversation ; but the doctor as he
entered the lady & portals amongst a tribe of servants and in a
glare of light, and saw the crowd before him and the crowd
behind him, felt that it was quite impossible that he should
ever be at home there. It might be all right that a Miss
Dunstable should live in thi ^ wMy, but it could not be right
that the wife of Dr. Thorne should so live. But all this was a
matter of the merest speculation, for he was well aware — as be
said to himself a dozen times — that his niece had blundered
strangely in her reading of Miss Dunstable’s character.
When the Gresham party entered the ante-room into ivhich
the staircase opened, they found Miss Dunstable standing
there surrounded by a few of her most intimate allies. Mrs.
Harold Smith ^vas sitting quite close to her ; Dr. Easyman was
reclining on a sofa against the wall, and the lady who habitually
lived with Miss Dunstable was by his side. One or two others
were there also, so that a little running conversation was kept
up in order to relieve Miss Dunstable of the tedium which
might otherwise be engendered by the work she had in hand.
As Mrs. Gresham, leaning on her husband^s arm, entered the
room, she saw the back of Mrs. Proud ie, as that lady made her
way through the opposite door, leaning on the arm of the
bishop. Mrs. Harold Smith had apparently recovcied from
the annoyance which she must no doubt have felt when Miss
Dunstable so utterly rejected her suit on behalf of her brother.
If .any feeling had existed, even for a day, calculated to put a
stop to the intimacy between the two ladies, that feeling had
altogether died away, for Mrs. Harold Smith was conversing
with her friend, quite in the old* way. She made some remark
on each of the guests as they passed by, and apparently did so
in a manner satisfactory to the owner of the house, for Mist
276 Framley Parsonage
Dunstable answered with her kindest smiles, and in that genial,
happy tone of voice which gave its peculiar character to her
good humour : “ She is quite convinced that you are a mere
plagiarist in what you are doing,” said Mrs. Harold Smith,
speaking of Mrs. Proudie.
**And so I am. I don’t suppose there can be anything
very original now-a-days about an evening party.”
“ But she thinks you are copying her.”
“And why not? I copy everybody that I see, more or less.
You did not at first begin to wear big petticoats out of your
own head ? If Mrs. Proudie has any such pride as that, pray
don’t rob her of it. Here’s the doctor and the Greshams.
Mary, my darling, how are you?” and in spite of all her
grandeur of apparel. Miss Dunstable took hold of Mrs. Gresham
and kissed her — to the disgust of the dozen-and-a-half of the
distinguished fashionable world who were passing up the stairs
behind. The doctor was somewhat repressed in his mode of
address by the communication which had so lately been made
to him. Miss Dunstable was now standing on the very top of the
pinnacle of wealth, and seemed to him to be not only so much
above his reach, but also so far removed from his track in life,
that he could not in any way put himself on a level with her.
He could neither aspire so high nor descend so low; and
thinking of this he spoke to Miss Dunstable as though there
were sofiie great distance between them, — as though there had
been no hours of intimate friendship down at Greshamsbury.
There had been such hours, during which Miss Dunstable and
Dr. Thorne had lived as though they belonged to the same
world : and this at any rate may be said of Miss Dunstable,
that she had no idea of forgetting them.
Dr. Thorne merely gave her his hand, and then prepared to
pass OIL
“ Don’t go, doctor,” she said ; “ for heaven’s sake, don’t go
yet. I don’t know when I may catch you if you get in there.
1 shan’t be able to follow you for the next two hours. Lady
Meredith, I am so much obliged to you for coming — your
mother will be here, 1 hope. Oh, I am so glad ! From her
you know that is quite a favour. You, Sir George, are half a
sinner yourself, so 1 don’t think so much about it.”
“ Oh, quite so,” said Sir George ; “ perhaps rather the largest
half.”
“ The men divide the world into gods and giants,” said Miss
Dunstable. “We women have our divisions also. We are
saints or sinners according to our party. The worst of it is, that
Miss Dunstable at Home 277
we rat almost as often as you do.” Whereupon Sir George
laughed and passed on.
“ I know, doctor, you don’t like this kind of thing,” she
continued, “but there is no reason why you should indulge
yourself altogether in your own way, more than another — is
there, Frank ? ”
“ I am rot so sure but he does like it,” said Mr. Gresham.
“ There are some of your reputed friends whom he owns that
he is anxious to see.”
“ Are there ? Then there is some hope of his ratting too.
But he’ll never make a good staunch sinner ; will he, Mary ?
You’re too old to learn new tricks ; eh, doctor ? ”
“ I am afraid I am,” said the doctor, with a faint laugh.
“ Does Dr. Thorne rank himself among the army of saints ? ”
asked Mrs. Harold Sni'th.
“ Decidedly,” said Miss Dunstable. “ But you must always
remember that there are saints of different orders ; are there
not, Mary ? and nobody supposes that the Franciscans and the
Dominicans agree very well higether. Dr. Thorne does not
belong to the school of St. Proudie, of Barchester ; he would
prefer the priestess whom I see coming round the corner of
the staircase, with a very famous young novice at her elbow.”
“From all that I can hear, you will have to reckon Miss
Grantly among the sinners,” said Mrs. Harold Smith — seeing
that Lady Lufton with her young friend was approaching —
“unless, indeed, you can make a saint of Lady Hartletop.”
And then Lady Lufton entered the room, and Miss Dunstable
came forward to meet her with more quiet respect in her
manner than she had as yet shown to many of her guests. “ 1 am
much obliged to you for coming, Lady Lufton,” she said, “ and
the more so, for bringing Miss Grantly with you.” Lady Lufton
uttered some pretty little speech, during which Dr. Thorne
came up and shook hands with her ; as did also Frank Gresham
and his wife. There was a county acquaintance between the
Framley people and the Greshamsbury people, and therefore
there was a little general conversation before Lady Lufton
passed out of the small room into what Mrs. Proudie would
have called the noble suite of apartments. “ Papa will be
here,” said Miss Grantly ; “ at least so I understand. I have
not seen him yet myself.”
“ Oh, yes, he has promised me,” said Miss Dunstable ; “ and
the archdeacon, 1 know, will keep his word. I should by no
means have the proper ecclesiastical balance without him.”
“ Papa always does keep his word,” said Miss Grantly, in a
278 Framley Parsonage
tone that was almost severe. She had not at all understood
poor Miss Dunstable’s little joke, or at any rate she was too
dignified to respond to it.
“ 1 understand that old Sir John is to accept the Chiltern
Hundreds at once,” said Lady Lufton, in a half whisper to
Frank Gresham.
Lady Lufton had always taken a keen interest in the politics
of F.ast Barsetshire, and was now desirous of expressing her
satisfaction that a Gresham should again sit for the county.
The Greshams had been old county members in Barsetshire,
time out of mind.
“ Oh, yes ; I believe so,” said Frank blushing. He was still
young enough to feel almost ashamed of putting himself for-
ward for such high honours.
“There will be no contest, of course,” said Lady Lufton,
confidentially. “ There seldom is in East Barsetshire, I am
happy to say. But if there were, every tenant at Framley
would vote on the right side ; I can assure you of that. Lord
Lufton was saying so to me only this morning.” FTank Gres-
ham made a pretty little speech in reply, such as young suck-
ing politicians are expected to make ; and this, with sundry
other small courteous murmurings, detained the Lufton party
for a minute or two in the ante-chamber. In the meantime
the world w^as pre.ssing on and passing through to the four or
five large reception-rooms — the noble suite which was already
piercing poor Mrs. Proudic’s heart with envy to the very core.
“ These are the sort of rooms,” she said to herself uncon-
sciously, “ which ought to be provided by the countiy for the
use of its bishops.”
“ But the ]K*ople are not brought enough together,” she
said to her lord.
“ No, no ; 1 don’t think they are,” said the bishop.
“And that is so essential for a conversazione,” continued
Mrs. Proudie. “ Now in Gloucester Place ” But we will
not record all her adverse criticisms, as Lady Lufton is
waiting for us in the ante-room. And now another arrival of
moment had taken place ; — an arrival indeed of very great
moment. To tell the truth. Miss Dunstable’s heart had been
set upon having two special persons ; and though no stone had
been left unturned, — no stone which could be turned with
discretion, — she was still left in doubt as to both these two
wondrous potentates. At the very moment of which we are
now speaking, light and airy as she appeared to be — for it was
her character to be light and airy — her mind was torn with
Miss Dunstable at Home 279
doubts. If the wished-for two would come, her evening would
be thoroughly successful ; but if not, all her trouble would
have been thrown away, and the thing would have been a
failure ; and there were circumstances connected with the
present assembly which made Miss Dunstable very anxious
that she should not fail. That the two great ones of the earth
were Tom Towers of the Jupiter^ and the Duke of Omnium,
need hardly be expressed in words. And now, at this very
moment, as Lady Lufton was making her civil speeches to
young Gresham, apparently in no hurry to move on, and while
Miss Dunstable was endeavouring to whisper something into
the doctor’s ear, which would make him feel himself at home
in this new world, a sound w’as heard which made that lady
know that half her wish had at any rate been granted to her.
A sound was heaid— l>iit only by her own and one other
attentive pair of ears. Mrs. Harold Smith had also cauglit the
name, and knew that the duke was approaching. There was
great glory and triumph in this ; but why had his grace come
at so unchancy a moment ? Miss Dunstable had been fully
aware of the impropriety of bringing Lady Lufton and the
Duke of Omnium into the same house at the same time ; but
wiien she had asked Lady Lufton, she had been led to believe
that there was no hope of obtaining the duke ; and then, when
that hope had dawned upon her, she had comforted herself
with the reflection that the tw^o suns, though they might for
some few minutes be in the same hemisphere, could hardly be
expected to clash, or come across each other’s orbits. Her
rooms were large and would be crowded ; the duke would
probably do little more than walk through them once, and
Lady Lufton would certainly be surrounded by persons of her
own class. 'Dius Miss Dunstable had comforted herself. But
now all things were going wrong, and Lady Lufton would find
herself in close contiguity to the nearest representative of
Satanic agency, which, according to her ideas, was allowed to
walk this nether English wwld of ours. Would she scream ? —
or indignantly retreat out of the house ? — or would she proudly
raise her head, and with outstretched hand and audible voice,
boldly defy the devil and all his works? In thinking of these
thipgs as the duke approached Miss Dunstable almost lost her
presence of mind. But Mrs. Harold Smith did not lose hers.
** So here at last is the duke,” she said, in a tone intended to
catch the express attention of Lady Lufton.
Mrs. Smith had calculated that there might still be time for
her ladyship to pass on and avoid the interview. But I^dy
IP 181
28 o Framley Parsonage
Lufton, if she heard the words, did not completely understand
them. At any rate they did not convey to her mind at the
moment the meaning they were intended to convey. She
paused to whisper a last little speech to Frank Gresham, and
then looking round, found that the gentleman who was press-
ing against her dress was — the Duke of Omnium I On this
great occasion, when the misfortune could no longer be
avoided, Miss Dunstable was by no means beneath herself or
her character. She deplored the calamity, but she now saw
that it was only left to her to make the best of it. The duke
had honoured her by coming to her house, and she was bound
to welcome him, though in doing so she should bring Lady
Lufton to her last gasp. “ Duke,'* she said, “ I am greatly
honoured by this kindness on the part of your grace. 1 hardly
expected that you would be so good to me.”
“The goodness is all on the other side,” said the duke,
bowing over her hand. And then in the usual course of things
this would have been all. The duke would have walked on
and shown himself, would have said a word or two to Lady
Hartletop, to the bishop, to Mr. Gresham, and such like, and
would then have left the rooms by another way, and quietly
escaped. This was the duty expected from him, and this he
would have done, and the value of the party would have been
increased thirty per cent, by such doing ; but now, as it was,
the newsmongers of the West End were likely to get much
more out of him.
Circumstances had so turned out that he had absolutely been
pressed clo^e against Lady Lufton, and she, when she heard
the voice, and was made positively acquainted with the fact of
the great man's presence by Miss Dunstable’s words, turned
round quickly, but still with much feminine dignity, removing
her dress from the contact. In doing this she was brought
absolutely face to face with the duke, so that each could not but
look full at the other, “ I beg your pardon,” said the duke.
They were the only words that had ever passed between them, nor
have they spoken to each other since ; but simple as they were,
accompanied by the little byplay of the speakers, they gave
rise to a considerable amount of ferment in the fashionable
world. Lady Lufton, as she retreated back on to Dr. Easyman,
curtseyed low; she curtseyed low and slowly, and with
haughty arrangement of her drapery that was all her own ; but
the curtsey, though it was eloquent, did not say half so much,
— did not reprobate the habitual iniquities of the duke with a
voice nearly as potent, as that which was expressed in the gradual
Miss Dunstable at Home 281
fall of her eye and the gradual pressure of her lips. When she
commenced her curtsey she was looking full in her foe’s face.
By the time that she had completed it her eyes were turned
upon the ground, but there was an ineffable amount of scorn
expressed in the lines of her mouth. She spoke no word, and
retreated, as modest virtue and feminine weakness must ever
retreat, before barefaced vice and virile power ; but nevertheless
she was held by all the world to have had the best of the
encounter. The duke, as he begged her pardon, wore in his
countenance that expression of modified sorrow which is
common to any gentleman who is supposed by himself to have
incommoded a lady. But over and above this, — or rather
under it, — there was a slight smile of derision, as though it
were impossible for him to look upon the bearing of Lady
Lufton without some amount of ridicule. All this was legible
to eyes so keen as those of Miss Dunstable and Mrs. Harold
Smith, and the duke was known to be a master of this silent
inward sarcasm ; but even by them, — by Miss Dunstable and
Mrs. Harold Smith, — it vras admitted that Lady Lufton had
conquered. When her ladyship again looked up, the duke had
passed on ; she then resumed the care of Miss Grantly’s hand,
and followed in among the company.
“ That is what I call unfortunate,” said Miss Dunstable, as
soon as both belligerents had departed from the field of battle.
“ The fates sometimes will be against one.”
“ But they have not been at all against you here,” said Mrs.
Harold Smith. “ If you could arrive at her ladyship’s private
thoughts to-morrow morning, you would find her to be quite
happy in having met the duke. It will be years before she
has done boasting of her triumph, and it will be talked of by
the young ladies of Framley for the next three generations.”
The Gresham party, including Dr. Thorne, had remained in
the ante-chamber during the battle. The whole combat did
not occupy above two minutes, and the three of them were
hemmed off from escape by Lady Lufton’s retreat into Dr.
Easyman’s lap ; but now they, too, essayed to pass on.
“ What, you will desert me,” said Miss Dunstable. “Very
well ; but I shall find you out by-and-by. Frank, there is to
be some dancing in one of the rooms, — just to distinguish the
affair from Mrs. Proudie’s conversazione. It would be stupid,
you know, if all conversaziones were alike ; wouldn’t it ? So 1
hope you will go and dance.”
“ There will, I presume, be another variation at feeding time,”
said Mrs. Harold Smith.
282 Framley Parsonage
“ Oh yes, certainly ; I am the most vulgar of all wretches in
that respect. I do love to set people eating and drinking. —
Mr. Supplehouse, 1 am delighted to see you ; but do tell
me ” and then she whispered with great energy into the
ear of Mr. Supplehouse, and Mr. Supplehouse again whispered
into her ear. “ You think he will, then ? ” said Miss Dunstable.
Mr. Supplehouse assented ; he did think so ; but he had no
warrant for stating the circumstance as a fact. And then
he passed on, hardly looking at Mrs. Harold Smith as he
passed.
“ What a hang-dog countenance he has,” said that lady.
“ Ah, you’re prejudiced, my dear, and no wonder ; as for
myself I always liked Supplehouse. He means mischief ; but
then mischief is his trade, and he does not conceal it. If I
were a politician I should as soon think of being angry wdth
Mr. Supplehouse for turning against me as I am now with a
pin for pricking me. It’s my own awkwardness, and I ought
to have known how to use the pin more craftily.”
“ But you must detest a man who professes to stand by his
party, and then does his best to ruin it.”
“ So many have done that, my dear ; and with much more
success than Mr. Supplehouse I All is fair in love and war, —
why not add politics to the list ? If we could only agree to do
that, it would save us from such a deal of heartburning, and
would make none of us a bit the worse.”
Miss Dunstable’s rooms, large as they were — “ a noble suite
of rooms certainly, though perhaps a little too — loo — too
scattered, we will say, eh, bishop ? ” — were now nearly full, and
would have been inconveniently crowded, were it not that
many who came only remained for half-an-hour or so. Space,
however, had been kept'for the dancers — much to Mrs. Proudie’s
consternation. Not that she disapproved of dancing in London,
as a rule ; but she was indignant that the laws of a conversazione,
as re-established by herself in the fashionable world, should be
so violently infringed.
“ Conversazione will come to mean nothing,” she said to the
bishop, putting great stress on the latter word, “ nothing at all,
if they are to be treated in this way.”
“ No, they won’t ; nothing in the least,” said the bishop.
“ Dancing may be very well in its place,” said Mrs.
Proudie.
“ I have never objected to it myself ; that is, for the laity,”
said the bishop.
But when people profess to assemble for higher objects,”
Miss Dunstable at Home 283
said Mrs. Proudie, “they ought to act up to theii pro-
fessions.”
“Otherwise they are no better than hypocrites,” said the
bishop.
“ A spade should be called a spade,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“ Decidedly,” said the bishop, assenting.
“ And 'vhen I undertook the trouble and expense of intro-
ducing conversaziones,” continued Mrs. Proudie, with an evident
feeling that she had been ill-used, “ I had no idea of seeing
the word so — so — so misinterpreted;” and then observing
certain desirable acquaintances at the other side of the room,
she went across, leaving the bishop to fend for himself.
Lady Lufton, having achieved her success, passed on to the
dancing, whither it was not probable that her enemy would
follow her, and she had not been there very long before she
was joined by her son. Her heart at the present moment w'as
not (jiiite satisfied at the state of affairs with reference to
Griselda. She had gone so far as to tell her young friend
what were her own wishes ; she had declared her desire that
Griselda should become her daughter-in-law ; but in answer
to this Griselda herself had declared nothing. It was, to be
sure, no more than natural that a young lady so w-ell brought
up as Miss Grantly should show no signs of a passion till she
was warranted in showing them by the proceedings of the
gentleman ; but notwithstanding this, fully aware as she was
of the pro])riety of such reticence — l.ady Lufton did think
that to her Griselda might have spoken some word evincing
that the alliance would be satisfactory to her. Griselda, how-
ever, had spoken no such word, nor had she uttered a syllable
to show that she would accept Lord Lufton if he did offer.
Then again she had uttered no syllable to show that she would
not accept him ; but, nevertheless, although she knew that
the world had been talking about her and Lord Dumbello,
she stood up to dance with the future marquess on every
possible occasion. All this did give annoyance to Lady Lufton,
who began to bethink herself that if she could not quickly bring
her little plan to a favourable issue, it might be well for her
to wash her hands of it. She was still anxious for the match
on her son’s account. Griselda would, she did not doubt,
make a good wife ; but Lady Lufton was not so sure as she once
had been that she herself would be able to keep up so strong a
feeling for her daughter-in-law as she had hitherto hoped to
do. “ Ludovic, have you been here long ? ” she said, smiling as
she always did smile when her eyes fell upon her son’s face.
. 284 Framley Parsona^fe
** This instant arrived ; and I hurried on after you, as Miss
Dunstable told me that you were here. What a crowd she has !
Did you see Lord Brock ?”
“ I did not observe him.”
*‘Or Lord De Terrier? I saw them both in the centre
room.”
“ Lord De Terrier did me the Honour of shaking hands with
me as I passed through.”
“I never saw such a mixture of people. There is Mrs.
Proudie going out of her mind because you are all going to
dance.”
“ The Miss Proudies dance,” said Griselda Grantly.
“ But not at conversaziones. You don’t see the difference.
And I saw Spermoil there, looking as pleased as Punch. He
had quite a circle of his own round him, and was chattering
aw^ay as though he were quite accustomed to the wickednesses
of the world.”
“There certainly are people here whom one would not have
wished to meet, had one thought of it,” said l,ady Lufton,
mindful of her late engagement.
“But it must be all right, for I walked up the stairs with
the archdeacon. That is an absolute proof, is it not, Miss
Grantly?”
“ I haxe no fears. When I am with your mother I know I
must be safe.”
“ I am not so sure of that,” said Lord Lufton, laughing.
“Mother, you hardly know the worst of it yet. Who is here,
do you think ? ”
“I know whom you mean; I have seen him,” said Lady
Lufton, very quietly.
“We came across him just at the top of the stairs,” said
Griselda, with more animation in her face than ever Lord
Lufton had seen there before.
“ What ; the duke ? ”
“Yes, the duke,” said Lady Lufton. “I certainly should
not have come had I expected to be brought in contact with
that man. But it was an accident, and on such an occasion as
this it could not be helped.” Lord Lufton at once perceived,
by the tone of his mother’s voice and by the shades of her
countenance that she had absolutely endured some personal
encounter with the duke, and also that she was by no means
so indignant at the occurrence as might have been expected.
There she was, still in Miss Dunstable’s house, and expressing
no anger as to Miss Dunstable’s conduct. Lord Lufton could
Miss Dunstable at Home 285
hardly have been more surprised had he seen the duke hand-
ing his mother down to supper; he said, however, nothing
further on the subject.
“Are you going to dance, I.uclovic ? ” said Lady Lufton.
“ Well, I am not sure that I do not agree with Mrs. Proudic
in thinking that dancing would contaminate a conversazione.
VVhat are your ideas, Miss Giantly?” Griselda was never
very gooa at a joke, and imagined that Lord Lufton wanted to
escape the trouble of dancing with her. This angered her
For the only species of love-making, or flirtation, or sociability
between herself as a young lady, and any other self as a young
gentleman, which recommended itself to her taste, was to be
found in the amusement of dancing. She was altogether ai
variance with Mrs. Proudie on this matter, and gave Miss
Dunstable great credit for her innovation. In society GriseldaS
toes were more serviceable to her than her tongue, and she wa?
to be won by a rapid twirl much more probably than by a soft
word. The offer of which she would approve would be con-
veyed by two all but breathless words during a spasmodic
pause in a waltz ; and then as she lifted up her arm to receive
the accustomed support at her back, she might just find power
enough to say, “ You — must ask — papa.’* After that she
would not care to have the aflair mentioned till everything was
properly settled.
“ I have not thought about it,” said Griselda, turning her
face away from Lord Lufton.
It must not, however, be supposed that Miss Grantly had
not thought about Lord Lufton, or that she had not considered
how great might be the advantage of having Lady Lufton on her
side if she made up her mind that she did wish to become Lord
Luff on’s wife. She knew well that now was her time for a
triumph, now in this very first season of her acknowledged
beauty ; and she knew also that young, good-looking bachelor
lords do not grow on liedges like blackberries. Had Lord
Lufton offered to her, she would have accepted him at once
without any remorse as to the greater glories which might
appertain to a future Marchioness of Hartletop. In that
direction she was not without sufficient wisdom. But then
Lord Lufton had not offered to her, nor given any signs that he
intended to do so ; and to give Griselda Grantly her due, she
was not a girl to make a first overture. Neither had Lord
Dumbello offered ; but he had given signs, — dumb signs, such
as birds give to each other, quite as intelligible as verbal signs
to a girl who preferred the use of her toes to that of her tongue
286 Framley Parsonage
“ I have not thought about it,” said Griselda, very coldly, and
at that moment a gentleman stood before her and asked her
hand for the next dance. It was Lord Dumbello ; and Griselda,
making no reply except by a slight bow, got up and put her
hand within her partner’s arm.
“ Shall I find you here, Lady Liifton, when we have done ?”
she said ; and then started off among the dancers. When the
work before one is dancing the proper thing for a gentleman to
do is, at any rate, to ask a lady ; this proper thing Lord Lufton
had omitted, and now the prize was taken away fiom under his
very nose.
There was clearly an air of triumph about Lord Dumbello as
he walked away with the beauty. The world had been saying
that Lord Lufton was to marry her, and the world had also
been saying that Lord Dumbello admired her. Now this had
angered Lord Dumbello, and made him feel as though he walked
about, a mark of scorn, as a disappointed suitor. Had it not
been f^or Lord Lufton, perhaps he would not have cared so much
for Griselda Grantly ; but circumstances had so turned out that
he did care for her, and felt it to be incumbent upon him, as
the heir to a marquisate, to obtain what he wanted, let who
would have a hankering after the same article. It is in this
way that pictures are so well sold at auctions ; and Lord
Dumbello regarded Miss Grantly as being now subject to the
auctioneer’s hammer, and conceived that Lord Lufton was
bidding against him. There was, therefore, an air of triumph
about him as he put his arm round Grisdda’s waist and whirled
her up and down the room in obedience to the music. Lady
Lufton and her son were left together looking at each other. Of
course, he had intended to ask Griselda to dance, but it cannot
be said that he very much regretted his disappointment. Of
course also Lady Lufton had expected that her son and
Griselda would stand up together, and she was a little inclined
to be angry with her proti^ie, “I think she might have waited
a minute,” said Lady Lufton.
“ But why, mother ? There are certain things for which no one
ever waits ; to give a friend, for instance, the first passage
through a gate out hunting, and such like. Miss Grantly was
quite right to take the first that offered.” Lady Lufton had
determined to learn what was to be the end of this scheme of
hers. She could not have Griselda always with her, and if any-
thing w'ere to be arranged it must be arranged now, while both
of them were in London. At the close of the season Griselda
would return toPlumstead, and Lord Lufton would go — nobody
Miss Dunstable at Home 287
as yet knew where. It would be useless to look forward to
further opportunities. If they did not contrive to love each
other now, they would never do so. Lady Lufton was be-
ginning to fear that her plan would not work, but she made up her
mind that she would learn the truth then and there -at least as
far as her son was concerned.
“ Oh, yes ; quite so ; — if it is equal to her with which she
dances,'* said Lady Lufton.
“ Quite equal, I should think — unless it be that Dumbello is
longer-winded than I am.”
“ I am sorry to hear you speak of her in that way, Ludovic.”
“ Why sorry, mother ? ”
“ Because I had hoped — that you and she would have liked
each other.” This she said in a serious tone of voice, tender
and sad, looking up into ivis face with a plaintive gaze, as though
she knew that she were askir*g of him some great favour.
“Yes, mother, I have known that you have wished that.”
“ You have known it, Ludovic ! ”
“Oh, dear, yes; you are not at all sharp at keeping your
secrets from me. And, mother, at one time, for a day or so, I
thought that I could oblige you. You have been so good to
me, that I would almost do anything for you.”
“ Oh, no, no, no,” she said, deprecating his praise, and the
sacrifice which he seemed to offer of his own hopes and
aspirations. “ I would not for worlds have you do so for my
sake. No mother ever had a better son, and my only ambition
is for your happiness.”
“ But, mother, she would not make me happy. I was mad
enough for a moment to think that she could do so — for a
moment I did think so. There was one occasion on which 1
would have asked her to take me, but ”
“ But what, Ludovic ? ”
“ Never mind ; it passed away ; and now I shall never ask
her. Indeed I do not think she would have me. She is
ambitious, and flying at higher game than I am. And I must
say this for her, that she knows well what she is doing, and plays
her cards as though she had been born with them in her hand.”
“You will never ask her?”
M No, mother ; had I done so, it would have been for love of
you — only for love of you.”
“ I would not for worlds that you should do that.”
“ Let her have Dumbello ; she will make an excellent wife
for him, just the wife that he will want. And you, you will
have been so good to her in assisting her to such a matter ”
i8i
288 Framley Parsonage
** But, Ludovic, I am so anxious to see you settled.”
“ All in good time, mother ! ”
“Ah, but the good time is passing away. Years run so
rery quickly. I hope you think about marrying, Ludovic.”
“ But, mother, what if I brought you a wife that you did not
approve ? ”
“ I will approve of any one that you love ; that is ”
“ That is, if you love her also ; eh, mother ? ”
“ But I rely with such confidence on your taste. I know that
you can like no one that is not ladylike and good.”
“ Ladylike and good; will that suffice ? ” said he, thinking
of Lucy K charts.
“ Yes ; It will suffice, if you love her. I don*t want you to
care for money. Griselda will have a fortune that would have
been convenient ; but I do not wnsh you to care for that.” And
thus, as they stood together in Miss IJunstahle^s crowded room,
the mother and son settled between themselves that the Lunon-
Grantly alliance treaty was not to be ratified. “ I supp<xse I
must let Mrs. Grantly know,” said Lady Lufton to herself, as
Griselda returned to her side, 'rhere had not been above a
dozen words spoken between Lord Dumbello and his partner,
but that young lady also had now fully made up her mind that
the treaty above mentioned should never be brought into opera-
tion.
^Ve must go back to our hostess, whom we should not have
left for so long a time, seeing that this chapter is written to
show how well she could conduct herself in great emergencies.
She had declared that after awhile she would be able to leave
her position near the entrance door, and find out her own
peculiar friends among the crowd ; but the opportunity for
doing so did not come till very late in the evening. There was
a continuation of arrivals ; she was wearied to death with making
little speeches, and had more than once declared that she
must depute Mrs. Harold Smith to take her place. That lady
stuck to her through all her labours with admirable constancy,
and made the work bearable. Without some such constancy
on a friend’s part, it would have been unbearable ; and it must
be acknowledged that this was much to the credit of Mrs.
Harold Smith. Her own hopes with reference to the great
heiress had all been shattered, and her answer had been given
to her in very plain language. But, nevertheless, she was true
to her friendship, and was almost as willing to endure fatigue
on the occasion as though she had a sister-in-law’s right in the
house. At about one o’clock her brother came. He had not yet
Miss Dunstable at Home 289
seen Miss Dunstable since the offer had been made, and had
now with difficulty been persuaded by his sister to show himself.
“ What can be the use ? ” said he. “ The game is up with
me now ; ” — meaning, poor ruined ne’er-do-well, not only that
that game with Miss DunstaVile was up, but that the great game
of his whole life was being brought to an uncomfortable
termination.
“Nonsense,” said his sister; “do you mean to despair
because a man like the Duke of Omnium wants his money?
What has been good security for him will be good security for
another ; ” and then Mrs. Harold Smith made herself more
agreeable than ever to Miss Dunstable.
When Miss Dunstable was nearly worn out, but was still
endeavouring to buoy be’-‘^elf up by a hope of the still-expecied
great arrival — for she knew that the hero would show himself
only at a very late hour if it were to be her good fortune that he
showed himself at all — Mr. Sowerby walked up the stairs. He
had schooled himself to go through this ordeal with all the
cool effrontery which was at his command ; but it was clearly
to be seen that all his effrontery did not stand him in sufficient
stead, and that the interview would have been embarrassing
had it not been for the genuine good-humour of the lady.
“ Here is my brother,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, showing by
the treraulousness of the whisper that she looked forward to
the meeting with some amount of apprehension.
“ How do you do, Mr. Sowerby ? ” said Miss Dunstable,
walking almost into the doorway to welcome him. “ Better
late than never.”
“ I have only just got away from the House,” said he, as he
gave her his hand.
“ Oh, I know well that you are sans reproche among senators
— as Mr. Harold Smith is sans peur ; — eh, my dear ? ”
“ I must confess that you have contrived to be uncommonly
severe upon them both,” said Mrs. Harold, laughing ; “ and
as regards poor Harold, most undeservedly so : Nathaniel is
here, and may defend himself.”
“ And no one is better able to do so on all occasions. But,
my dear Mr. Sowerby, I am dying of despair. Do you think
he’H'come?”
“He? who?”
“You stupid man — as if there were more than one he 1
There were two, but the other has been.”
“ Upon my word, I don’t understand,” said Mr. Sowerby,
now again at his ease. “ But can 1 do anything ? shall I go
290 Framley Parsonage
and fetch anyone? Oh, Tom Towers; I fear I can’t help
you. But here he is at the foot of the stairs ! ” And then
Mr. Sowerby stood back with his sister to make way for the
great representative man of the age.
** Angels and ministers of grace assist me ! ” said Miss
Dunstable. “How on earth am I to behave myself? Mr.
Sowerby, do you think that I ought to kneel down ? My dear,
will he have a reporter at his back in the royal livery ? ” And
then Miss Dunstable advanced two or three steps — not into
the doorway, as she had done for Mr. Sowerby — put out her
hand, and smiled her sweetest on Mr. Towers, of the Jupiter.
“ Mr. Towers,*’ she said, “ I am delighted to have this
opportunity of seeing you in my own house.”
“ Miss Dunstable, I am immensely honoured by the
privilege of being here,” said he.
“ The honour done is all conferred on me,” and she bowed
and curtseyed with very stately grace. Each thoroughly
understood the badinage of the other ; and then, in a few
moments, they were engaged in very easy conversation.
“ By-the-by, Sowerby, what do you think of this threatened
dissolution ? ” said Torn Towers.
“We are all in the hands of Providence,” said Mr. Sowerby,
striving to take the matter without any outward show of
emotion^ But the question was one of terrible import to him,
and up to this time he had heard of no such threat. Nor had
Mrs. Harold Smith, nor Miss Dunstable, nor had a hundred
others who now either listened to the vaticinations of Mr.
Towers, or to the immediate report made of them. But it is
given to some men to originate such tidings, and the perform-
ance of the prophecy is often brought about by the authority of
the prophet. On the following morning the rumour that there
would be a dissolution was current in all high circles. “ They
have no conscience in such matters ; no conscience whatever,”
said a small god, speaking of the giants — a small god, whose
constituency w^as expensive. Mr. Towers stood there chatting
for about twenty minutes, and then took his departure without
making his way into the room. He had answered the purpose
for which he had been invited, and left Miss Dunstable in a
happy frame of mind.
“ I am very glad that he came,” said Mrs. Harold Smith,
with an air of triumph.
“ Yes, i am glad,” said Miss Dunstable, “ though I am
thoroughly ashamed that I should be so. After all, what good
has he done to me or to any one ? ” And h.aving uttered this
Miss Dunstable at Home 291
moral reflection, she made her way into the rooms, and soon
discovered Dr. Thorne standing by himself against the
wall.
“ Well, doctor,” she said, “ where are Mary and Frank ?
You do not look at all comfortable, standing here by your-
self.”
“ I am quite as comfortable as I expected, thank you,” said
he. “ They are in the room somewhere, and, as I believe,
equally happy.”
“I'hat's spiteful in you, doctor, to speak in that way. What
would you say if you were called on to endure all that I have
gone through this evening ? ”
“There is no accounting for tastes, but I presume you like
it.”
“lam not so sure of that. Give me your arm and let me get
some supper. One always likes the idea of having done hard
work, and one always likes to have been successful.”
“ We all know that virtue is its own reward,” said the
doctor.
“ Well, that is something hard upon me,” said Miss
Dunstable, as she sat down to table. “ And you really
think that no good of any sort can come from my giving such a
party as this ? ”
“ Oh, yes ; some people, no doubt, have been amused.”
“ It is all vanity in your estimation,” said Miss Dunstable ;
“ vanity and vexation of spirit. Well ; there is a good deal of the
latter, certainly. SheiTy, if you please. I would give anything for
a glass of beer, but that is out of the question. Vanity and vexa-
tion of si)irit ! And yet I meant to do good.”
“ Pray, do not suppose that I am condemning you. Miss
Dunstable.”
“ Ah, but I do suppose it. Not only you, but another also,
whose judgment I care for, perhaps, more than yours ; and
that, let me tell you, is saying a great deal. You do condemn
me. Dr. Thorne, and I also condemn myself. It is iiot that 1
have done wrong, but the game is not worth the candle.”
“ Ah ; that’s the question.”
“I’he game is not worth the candle. And yet it was a
triumph to have both the duke and Tom Towers. You must
confess that I have not managed badly.” Soon after that the
Greshams went away, and in an hour’s time or so. Miss Dun-
stable was allowed to drag herself to her own bed.
That is the great question to be asked on all such occasions,
“ Is the game worth the candle ? ”
292
Framley Parsonage
CHAPTER XXX
THE GRANTLY TRIUMPH
It has been mentioned cursorily — the reader, no doubt, will
have forgotten it — that Mrs. Grantly was not specially invited
by her husband to go up to town with a view of being present
at Miss Dunstable*s party. Mrs. Grantly said nothing on the
subject, but she was somewhat chagrined ; not on account of
the loss she sustained with reference to that celebrated
assembly, but because she felt that her daughter’s affairs
required the supervision of a mother’s eye. She also doubted
the final ratification of that Lufton-Grantly treaty, and, doubt-
ing it, she did not feel quite satisfied that her daughter should
be left in Lady Lufton’s hands. She had said a word or two
to the archdeacon before he went up, but only a word or two,
for she hesitated to trust him in so delicate a matter. She
was, therefore, not a little surprised at receiving, on the second
morning after her husband’s departure, a letter from him
desiring her immediate presence in London. She was sur-
prised ; but her heart was filled rather with hope than dismay,
for she had full confidence in her daughter’s discretion. On
the morning after the party. Lady Lufton and Griselda had
breakfasted together as usual, but each felt that the manner of
the other was altered. Lady Lufton thought that her young
friend was somewhat less attentive, and perhaps less meek in
her demeanour than usual ; and Griselda f^elt that Lady Lufton
was less affectionate. Very little, however, was said between
them, and Lady Lufton expressed no surprise when Griselda
begged to be left alone at home, instead of accompanying her
ladyship w^hen the carriage came to the door. Nobody called
in Bruton Street that afternoon— no one, at least, was let in —
except the archdeacon. He came there late in the day, and
remained with his daughter till Lady Lufton returned. Then
he took his leave, with more abruptness than was usual with
him, and without saying anything special to account for the
duration of his visit. Neither did Griselda say anything
special ; and so the evening wore away, each feeling in some
unconscious manner that she was on less intimate terms with
the other than had previously been the case.
On the next day also Griselda would not go out, but at four
o’clock a servant brought a letter to her from Mount Street.
Her mother had arrived in London and wished to see her at
once. Mrs. Grantly sent her love to Lady Lufton, and would
The Grantly Triumph 293
call at half-past five, or at any later hour at which it might be
convenient for Lady Lufton to see her. Griselda was to stay
and dine in Mount Street ; so said the letter. Lady Lufton
declared that she would be very happy to see Mrs. Grantly at
the hour named ; and then, armed with this message, Griselda
started for her mother's lodgings. “ I'll send the carriage for
you,” said lady Lufton. “ I suppose about ten will do.”
“Thank you,” said Griselda, “that will do very nicely;''
and then she went. Exactly at half-past five Mrs. Grantly was
shown into Lady Lufton's drawing-room. Her daughter did
not come with her, and Lady Lufton could see by the ex-
pression of her friend's face that business was to be discussed.
Indeed, it was necessary that she herself should discuss busi-
ness, for Mrs. Grantl]’ must now be told that the family treaty
could not be ratified. The gentleman declined the alliance,
and poor Lady I^ufton was uneasy in her mind at the nature
of the task before her.
“ Your coming up has been rather unexpected,” said Lady
Lufton, as soon as her friend was seated on the sofa.
“ Yes, indeed ; I got a letter from the archdeacon only this
morning, which made it absolutely necessary that I should
come.”
“ No bad news, I hope ? ” said Lady Lufton.
“ No ; I can't call it bad news. But, dear Lady Lufton,
things won't always turn out exactly as one would have
them.”
“ No, indeed,” said her ladyship, remembering that it was
incumbent on her to explain to Mrs. Grantly now at this
present interview th® tidings with which her mind was fraught.
She would, however, let Mrs. Grantly first tell her own story,
feeling, perhaps, that the one might possibly bear upon the
other.
“ Poor dear Griselda ! ” said Mrs. Grantly, almost with a
sigh. “ I need not tell you, Lady I.ufton, what my hopes
were regarding her.”
“ Has she told you anything — anything that ”
“She would have spoken to you at once — and it was due to
you that she should have done so— but she was timid ; and
not unnaturally so. And then it was right that she should see
her father and me before she quite made up her own mind.
But I may say that it is settled now.”
“ What is settled ? ” asked Lady Lufton.
“ Of course it is impossible for any one to tell beforehand
how these things will turn out,” continued Mrs. Grantly,
294 Framley Parsonage
beating about the bush rather more than was necessary.
“The dearest wish of my heart was to see her married to
Lord Lufton. I should so much have wished to have her in
the same county with me, and such a match as that would
have fully satisfied my ambition.”
“Well, I should rather think it might !” Lady Lufton did
not say this out loud, but she thought it. Mrs. Grantly was
absolutely speaking of a match between her daughter and
Lord Lufton as though she would have displayed some
amount of Christian moderation in putting up with it !
Griselda Grantly might be a very nice girl ; but even she —
so thought Lady Lufton at the moment — might possibly be
priced too highly.
“Dear Mrs. Grantly,” she said, “I have foreseen for the
last few days that our mutual hopes in this respect would not
be gratified. Lord Lufton, I think ; — but perhaps it is not
necessary to explain Had you not come up to town I
should have written to you, — ^probably to-day. Whatever may
be dear Griselda’s fate in life, I sincerely hope that she may be
happy.”
“ I thirik she will,” said Mrs. Grantly, in a tone that expressed
much satisfaction.
“ Has — has anything ”
“ Lord Dumbello proposed to Griselda the other night, at
Miss Dunstable’s party,” said Mrs. Grantly, with her eyes fixed
upon the floor, and assuming on the sudden much meekness
in her manner ; “ and his lordship was with the archdeacon
yesterday, and again this morning. I fancy he is in Mount
Street at the present moment.”
“ Oh, indeed ! ” said Lady Lufton. She would have given
worlds to have possessed at the moment sufficient self-
command to have enabled her to express in her tone and
manner unqualified satisfaction at the tidings. But she had
not such self-command, and was painfully aware of her own
deficiency.
“ Yes,” said Mrs. Grantly. “ And as it is all so far settled,
and as I know you are so kindly anxious about dear Griselda,
I thought it right to let you know at once. Nothing can be
more upright, honourable, and generous than Lord Dumbello’s
conduct ; and, on the whole, the match is one with which I
and the archdeacon cannot but be contented.”
“It isr certainly a great match,” said Lady Lufton. “ Have
you seen Lady Hartletop yet ? ”
Now Lady Hartletop could not be regarded as an agreeable
The Grantly Triumph 295
connection, but this was the only word which escaped from
l^dy Liifton that could be considered in any way disparaging,
and, on the whole, I think that she behaved well.
“ Lord Dumbello is so completely his own master that that
has not been necessary,” said Mrs. Grantly. “ The marquis
has been told, and the archdeacon will see him either to-
morrow '>r the day after.” There was nothing left for Lady
Lufton but to congratulate her friend, and this she did in
words perhaps not very sincere, but which, on the whole,
were not badly chosen.
“ I am sure I hope she will be very happy,” said Lady
Lufton, “and I trust that the alliance” — the word was very
agreeable to Mrs. Grantly*s ear — “ will give unalloyed gratifica-
tion to you and to her father. The position which she is called
to fill is a ver> splendid one, but I do not think that it is above
her merits.” This was very generous, and so Mrs. Grantly
felt it. She had expected that her news would be received
with the coldest shade of civility, and she was quite prepared
to do battle if there were occ ision. But she had no wish for
war, and was almost grateful to Lady Lufton for her cordiality.
“ Dear Lady Lufton,” she said, “ it is so kind of you to say
so. I have told no one else, and of course would tell no one
till you knew it. No one has known her and understood her
so well as you have done. And I can assure you of this, that
there is no one to whose friendship she looks forward in her
new sphere of life with half so much pleasure as she does to
yours.” Lady Lufton did not say much further. She could
not declare that she expected much gratification from an
intimacy with the future Marchioness of Hartletop. The
Hartletops and Luftons must, at any rate for her generation,
live in a world apart, and she had now said all that her old
friendship with Mrs. Grantly required. Mrs. Grantly under-
stood all this quite as well as did Lady Lufton; but then
Mrs. Grantly was much the better woman of the world. It
was arranged that Griselda should come back to Bruton Street
for the night, and that her visit should then be brought to a
close.
“The archdeacon thinks that for the present I had better
remain up in town,” said Mrs. Grantly, “ and under the very
peculiar circumstances Griselda will be — perhaps more com-
fortable with me.” To this Lady Lufton entirely agreed ; and
so they parted, excellent friends, embracing each other in a
most affectionate manner. That evening Griselda did return
to Bruton Street, and Lady Lufton had to go through the
296 Framley Parsonage
further task of congratulating her. This was the more dis*
agreeable of the two, especially so as it had to be thought over
beforehand. But the young lady's excellent good sense and
sterling qualities made the task comparatively an easy one.
She neither cried, nor was impassioned, nor went into
hysterics, nor showed any emotion. She did not even talk
of her noble Durnbello, — her generous Dumbello. She took
Lady Lufton's kisses almost in silence, thanked her ge*itly for
her kindness, and made no allusion to her own future
grandeur.
** I think I should like to go to bed early,” she said, “ as I
must see to my packing up.”
” Richards will do all that for you, my dear.”
“ Oh, yes, thank you, nothing can be kinder than Richards.
But I'll just see to my own dresses.” And so she went to bed
early.
Lady Lufton did not see her son for the next two days, but
when she did, of course she said a word or two about Grisclda.
“ You have heard the news, Ludovic ? ” she asked.
“ Oh, yes ; it's at all the clubs. I have been overwhelmed
with presents of willow branches.”
“ You, at any rate, have got nothing to regret,” she said.
“ Nor you either, mother. I am sure that you do not think
you have. Say that you do not regret it. Dearest mother, say
so for my sake. Do you not know in your heart of hearts that
she was not suited to be happy as my wife, — or to make me
happy ? ”
“ Perhaps not,” said Lady Lufton, sighing. And then she
kissed her son, and declared to herself that no girl in England
could be good enough for him.
CHAPTER XXXI
SALMON FISHING IN NORWAY
Lord Dumbello's engagement with Griselda Grantly was
the talk of the town for the next ten days. It formed, at least,
one of two subjects which monopolized attention, the other
being that dreadful rumour, first put in motion by Tom Towers
at Miss Dunstable’s party, as to a threatened dissolution of
Parliament. “ Perhaps, after all, it will be the best thing for
us,” said Mr. Green Walker, who felt himself to be tolerably
safe at Crewe Junction.
1 regard it as a most wicked attempt,” said Harold Smith,
Salmon Fishing in Norway 297
who was not equally secure in his own borough, and to whom
the expense of an election was disagreeable. “ It is done in
order that they may get time to tide over the autumn. They
won’t gain ten votes by a dissolution, and less than forty would
hardly give them a majority. But they have no sense of public
duty — none whatever. Indeed, I don’t know wno has.”
“ No, uy Jove ; that’s just it. That’s what my aunt Lady
Hartletop says ; there is no sense of duty left in the world.
By-the-by, what an uncommon fool Dumbello is making
himself ! ” And then the conversation went off to that other
topic.
Lord Lufton’s joke against himself about the willow
branches was all very well, and nobody dreamed that his heart
was sore in tha*^ rn.itier. The world was laughing at Lord
Dumbello for what it chose to call a foolish match, and
Lord Lufton’s friends talked to him about it as though they
had never suspected that he could have made an ass of him-
self in the same direction ; but, nevertheless, he was not
altogether contented. He by no means wished to marry
Griselda ; he had declared to himself a dozen times since
he had first suspected his mother’s manoeuvres that no
consideration on earth should induce him to do so ; he had
pronounced her to be cold, insipid, and unattractive in spite
of her beauty : and yet he felt almost angry that Lord Dum-
bello should have been successful. And this, too, was the
more inexcusable, seeing that he had never forgotten Lucy
Robarts, had never ceased to love her, and that, in holding
those various conversations within his own bosom, he was as
loud in Lucy’s favour as he was in dispraise of Griselda.
‘‘ Your hero, then,” I hear some well-balanced critic say,
“ is not worth very much.” In the first place Lord Lufton is
not my hero ; and in the next place, a man may be very
imperfect and yet worth a great deal. A man may be as
imperfect as Lord Lufton, and yet worthy of a good mother
and a good wife. If not, how many of us are unworthy of the
mothers and wives we have ! It is my belief that few young
men settle themselves down to the work of the world, to the
begetting of children, and carving and paying and struggling
ana fretting for the same, without having first been in love with
four or five possible mothers for them, and probably with two
or three at the same time. And yet these men are, as a rule,
worthy of the excellent wives that ultimately fall to their lot.
In this way Lord Lufton had, to a certain extent, been in love
with Griselda. There had been one moment in his life in
298 Framley Parsonage
which he would have offered her his hand, had not hei
discretion been so excellent ; and though that moment never
returned, still he suffered from some feeling akin to disappoint-
ment when he learned that Griselda had been won and was to
be worn. He was, then, a dog in the manger, you will say.
Well ; and are we not all dogs in the manger more or less
actively? Is not that manger-doggish ness one of the most
common phases of the human heart? But not the less was Lord
Lufton truly in love with Lucy Robarts. Had he fancied that
any Dumbello was carrying on a siege before that fortress,
his vexation would have manifested itself in a very different
manner. He could joke about Griselda Grantly with a
frank face and a happy tone of voice ; but had he heard
of any tidings of a similar import with reference to Lucy, he
would have been past all joking, and I much doubt whether it
would not even have affected his appetite. “ Mother,” he said
to I^ady Lufton, a day or two after the declaration of Griselda’s
engagement, “ I am going to Norway to fish.”
“ To Norway, — to fish ! ”
“ Yes. WeVe got rather a nice party. Clontarf is going,
and Culpepper ”
“ What — that horrid man ! ”
“ He’s an excellent hand at fishing ; and Haddington Peebles,
and — arfd — there’ll be six of us altogether ; and we start this
day week.”
“That’s rather sudden, Ludovic.”
“ Yes, it is sudden ; but we’re sick of London. I should not
care to go so soon myself, but Clontarf and Culpepper say that
the season is early this year. I must go down to Framley
before I start — about my horses ; and therefore I came to tell
you that I shall be there to-morrow.”
“ At Framley to-morrow ! If you could put it off for three
days I should be going myself.” But Lord Lufton could not
put it off for three days. It may be that on this occasion he
did not wish for his mother’s presence at Framley w^hile he was
there ; that he conceived that he should be more at his fease
in giving orders about his stables if he were alone while so
employed. At any rate he declined her company, and on
the following morning did go down to Framley by himself.
“ Mark,” said Mrs. Robarts, hurrying into her husband’s
book-room about the middle of the day, “ Lord Lufton is at
home. Have you heard it ? ”
“ What 1 here at Framley ? ”
•* He is over at Framley Court ; so the servants say. Carson
Salmon Fishing in Norway 299
saw him in the paddock with some of the horses. Won’t you
go and see him ? ”
“ Of course I will,” said Mark, shutting up his papers.
“ Lady Lufton can’t be here, and if he is alone he will probably
come and dine.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Robaits, thinking of
poor Lucy.
“ He is not in the least particular. What does for us will do
for him. 1 shall ask him, at any rale.” And without further
parley the clergyman took up his hat and went off in search of
his friend. Lucy Robarts had been present when the gardener
brought in tidings of Lord Lufton’s arrival at Framley, and was
aware that Fanny had gone to tell her husband.
“He won’t come here, will he?” she said, as soon as
Mrs. Robarts returned.
“ I can’t say,” said Fanny. “ 1 hope not. He ought not to
do so, and I don’t think he will. But Mark says that he will
ask him to dinner.”
“ I’hen, Fanny, I must be taken ill. There is nothing else
for it.”
“ I don’t think he will come. I don’t think he can be so
cruel. Indeed, I feel sure that he won’t ; but I thought it right
to tell you.” Lucy also conceived that it was improbable that
Lord Lufton should come to the parsonage under the present
circumstances ; and she declared to herself that it would not be
possible that she should appear at table if he did do so ; but,
nevertheless, the idea of his being at Framley was, perhaps,
not altogether painful to her. She did not recognize any
pleasure as coming to her from his arrival, but still there was
something in his presence which was, unconsciously to herself,
soothing to her feelings. But that terrible question remained : —
How was she to act if it should turn out that he was coming to
dinner ?
“ If he does come, Fanny,” she said, solemnly, after a pause,
“ I must keep to my own room, and leave Mark to think what
he pleases. It will be better for me to make a fool of myself
there, than in his presence in the drawing-room.”
Mark Robarts took his hat and stick and went over at once
to the home paddock, in which he knew that Lord Lufton was
engaged with the horses and grooms. He also was in no
supremely happy frame of mind, for his correspondence with
Mr. Tozer was on the increase. He had received notice from
that indefatigable gentleman that certain “ overdue bills ” were
now lying at the bank in Barchester, and were very desirous of
300 Framley Parsonage
his, Mr. Robarts’, notice. A concatenation of certain peculiarly
unfortunate circumstances made it indispensably necessary that
Mr. Tozer should be repaid, without further loss of time, the
various sums of money which he had advanced on the credit
of Mr. Robarts’ name, &c. &c. &c. No absolute threat was
put forth, and, singular to say, no actual amount w^as named.
Mr. Robarts, however, could not but observe, with a most
painfully accurate attention, that mention was made, not of
an overdue bill, but of overdue bills. What if Mr. Tozer were
to demand from him the instant repayment of nine hundred
pounds ? Hitherto he had merely written to Mr. Sow^erby,
and he might have had an answer from that gentleman this
morning, but no such answer had as yet reached him. Conse-
quently he was not, at the present moment, in a very happy
frame of mind.
He soon found himself with Lord Lufton and the horses.
Four or five of them were being walked slowly about the
paddock in the care of as many men or boys, and the sheets
were being taken off them — off one after another, so that their
master might look at them with the more accuracy and satis-
faction. But though Lord Lufton was thus doing his duty,
and going through his work, he was not doing it with his whole
heart, — as the head groom perceived very well. He was fretful
about the nags, and seemed anxious to get them out of his
sight as soon as he had made a decent pretext of looking
at them. “How are you, Lufton?” said Robarts, coming
forward. “ They told me that you were down, and so I came
across at once.”
“ Yes ; I only got here this morning, and should have been
over with you directly. I am going to Norw'ay for six weeks
or so, and it seems that the fish are so early this year that we
must start at once. I have a matter on which I want to speak
to you before I leave ; and, indeed, it was that which brought
me down more than anything else.” There was something
hurried and not altogether easy about his manner as he spoke,
which struck Robarts, and made him think that this promised
matter to be spoken of would not be agreeable in discussion.
He did not know whether Lord Lufton might not again be
mixed up with Tozer and the bills.
“ You will dine with us to-day,” he said, “ if, as I suppose,
you are all alone.”
“ Yes, I am all alone.”
“ Then you*ll come ? ”
“ Well, I don’t quite know. No, I don’t think I can go over
Salmon Fishing in Norway 301
to dinner. Don't look so disgusted. Til explain it all to you
just now.” What could there be in the wind ; and how was it
possible that Tozer's bill should make it inexpedient for LiOrd
Lufton to dine at the parsonage? Robarts, however, said
nothing further about it at the moment, but turned off to
look at the horses.
“ They ire an uncommonly nice set of animals,” said he.
“ Well, yes ; 1 don't know. When a man has four or five
horses to look at, somehow or other he never has one fit to
go. That chestnut mare is a picture, now that nobody wants
her ; but she wasn’t able to carry me well to hounds a single
day last winter. Take them in. Pounce ; that’ll do.”
“ Won’t your lordship run your eye over the old black ’oss ? ”
said Pounce, the head groom, in a melancholy tone; “he’s as
fine, sir — as fine as a stag.”
“To tell you the truth, I think they’re too fine; but that’ll
do ; take them in. And now, Mark, if you’re at leisure, we’ll
take a turn round the place.” Mark, of course, was at leisure,
and so they started on their walk.
“You’re too difficult to please about your stable,” Robarts
began.
“Never mind the stable now,” said Lord Lufton. “The
truth is, 1 am not thinking about it. Mark,” he then said,
very abruptly, “ I want you to be frank with me. Has your
sister ever spoken to you about me ? ”
“ My sister ; Lucy ? ”
“Yes; your sister Lucy.”
“ No, never ; at least nothing especial ; nothing that I can
remember at this moment.”
“ Nor your wife ? ”
“ Spoken about you I — Fanny ? Of course she has, in an
ordinary way. It would be impossible that she should not.
But what do you mean ? ”
“ Have either of them told you that I made an offer to your
sister ? ”
“That you made an offer to Lucy ? ”
“ Yes, that I made an offer to Lucy.”
“ No ; nobody has told me so. I have never dreamed of
such a thing ; nor, as far as I believe, have they. If anybody
has spread such a report, or said that either of them have
hinted at such a thing, it is a base lie. Good heavens I Lufton,
for what do you take them ? ”
“ But 1 did,” said his lordship.
“ Did what ? ” said the parson.
302 r^'ramley Parsonage
** I did make your sister an offer.”
“ You made Lucy an offer of marriage ! ”
“ Yes, I did ; — in as plain language as a gentleman could use
to a lady.”
“ And what answer did she make ? ”
“ She refused me. And now, Murk, I have come down here
with the express purpose of making that offer again. Nothing
could be more decided than your sister^s answer. struck
me as being almost uncourteously decided. But still it is
possible that circumstances may have weighed with her, which
ought not to weigh with her. If her love be not given to any
one else, I may still have a chance of it. It*s the old story of
faint heart, you know : at any rate, I mean to try my luck
again ; and thinking over it with deliberate purpose, I have
come to the conclusion that I ought to tell you before I
see her.”
Lord Lufton in love with Lucy ! As these words repeated
themselves over and over again within Mark Robarts* mind,
his mind added to them notes of surprise without end. How
had it possibly come about, — and why ? In his estimation his
sister Lucy was a very simple girl — not plain indeed, but by no
means beautiful; certainly not stupid, but by no means
brilliant. And then, he would have said, that of all men
whom be knew. Lord Lufton would have been the last to fall
in love with such a girl as his sister. And now, what was he
to say or do ? What views was he bound to hold ? In what
direction should he act ? There was Lady Lufton on the one
side, to whom he owed everything. How would life be
possible to him in that parsonage — within a few yards of her
elbow — if he consented to receive Lord Lufton as the acknow-
ledged suitor of his sister ? It would be a great match for
Lucy, doubtless ; but Indeed, he could not bring himself
to believe that Lucy could in truth become the absolute reigning
queen of Framley Court.
“ Do you think that Fanny knows anything of all this ? ” he
said after a moment or two.
“ I cannot possibly tell. If she does it is not with ni}
knowledge. I should have thought that you could best answer
that.”
** I cannot answer it at all,” said Mark. “ I, at least, have
had no remotest idea of such a thing.”
“ Your ideas of it now need not be at all remote,” said Lord
Lufton, with a faint smile ; ” and you may know it as a fact
I did make her an offer of marriage ; 1 was refused ; I am
Salmon Fishing in Norway 303
going to repeat it ; and I am now taking you into my con-
fidence, in order that, as her brother, and as my friend, you
may give me such assistance as you can.” They then walked
on in silence for some yards, after which Lord Liifton added :
“ And now Fll dine with you to-day if you wish it.” Mr.
Robarts did not know what to say ; he could not bethink
himself wh'‘t answer duty required of him. He had no right
to interfere between his sister and such a marriage, if she her-
self should wish it ; but still there was something terrible in
the thought of it ! He had a vague conception that it must
come to evil ; that the project was a dangerous one ; and that
it could not finally result happily for any of them. What
would Lady Lufton say? That undoubtedly was the chief
source of his diMnay.
“ Have you s[tnkcn to your mother about this ?” he said.
“My mother? no; why speak to her till I know my fate?
A man does not like to speak much of such matters if there be
a probability of his being rejected. I tell you because I
do not like to make my way into your house under a false
pretence.”
“ But what would Lady Lufton say ? ”
“ I think it probable that she would be displeased on the
first hearing it ; that in four-and-twenty hours she would be
reconciled; and that after a week or so Lucy would be her
dearest favourite and the prime minister of all her machinations.
You don’t know my mother as well as I do. She would give
her head off her shoulders to do me a pleasure.”
“ And for that reason,” said Mark Robarts, “ you ought, if
possible, to do her pleasure.”
“ I cannot absolutely marry a wdfe of her choosing, if you
mean that,” said I.,ord Lufton. 'Fhey went on walking about
the garden for an hour, but they hardly got any farther than
the point to which we have now brought them. Mark
Robarts could not make up his mind on the spur of the
moment ; nor, as he said more than once to Lord Lufton,
could he be at all sure that Lucy would in any way be guided
by him. It was, therefore, at last settled between them that
Lord Lufton should come to the parsonage immediately after
[breakfast on the following morning. It was agreed also that
Ithe dinner had better not come off, and Robarts promised that
Ihe would, if possible, have determined by the morning as to
ivhat advice he would give his sister. He went directly home
lo the parsonage from Framley Court, feeling that he was
I together in the dark till he should have consulted his wife.
304 Framley Parsonage
How would he feel if Lucy were to become Lady Lufton ? and
how would he look Lady Lufton in the face in telling her that
such was to be his sister’s destiny ? On returning home he
immediately found his wife, and had not been closeted with her
five minutes before he knew, at any rate, all that she knew.
“And you mean to say that she does love him?” said
Mark.
“ Indeed she does ; and is it not natural tliat she should ?
When I saw them so much together I feared that she would.
But I never thought that he w'ould care for her.” Eve.i Fanny
did not as yet give Lucy credit for half her attractiveness. Alter
an hour’s talking the interview between the husband and wife
ended in a message to Lucy, begging her to join them both in
the honk-room.
“ Aunt Lucy,” said a chubby little darling, who was taken
up into his aunt’s arms as he spoke, “papa and mamma ’ant
\)0 in te tuddy, and I musn’t go wis ’00.” Lucy, as she
kissed the boy and pressed his face against her own, felt that
her blood was running quick to her heart.
“ Musn’t *00 go wis me, my own one ? ” she said as she
put her playfellow down ; but she played with the child only
because she did not wish to betray, even to him, that she was
hardly mistress of herself. She knew that Lord Lufton was
at Framley ; she knew that her brother had been to him ; she
knew that a proposal had been made that he should come
there that day to dinner. Must it not, therefore, be the case
that this call to a meeting in the study had arisen out of Lord
Luften’s arrival at Framley? and yet, how could it have done
so ? Had Fanny betrayed her in order to prevent the dinner
invitation ? It could not be possible that Lord Lufton himself
should have spoken on the subject! And then she again
stooped to kiss the child, rubbed her hands across her fore-
head to smooth her hair, and erase, if that might be possible,
the look of care which she wore, and then descended slowly to
her brother’s sitting-room. Her hand paused for a second on
the door ere she opened it, but she had resolved that, come
what might, she would be brave. She pushed it open and
walked in with a bold front, with eyes wide open, and a slow
step. “ Frank says that you want me,” she said. Mr. Robarts
and Fanny were both standing up by the fireplace, and each
waited a second for the other to speak, when Lucy entered the
room, and then Fanny began, —
“ Lord Lufton is here, Lucy.”
“ Here ! Where ? At the parsonage ? ”
Salmon Fishing in Norway 305
“ No, not at the parsonage ; but over at Framley Court,”
said Mark.
“ And he promises to call here after breakfast to-morrow,”
said Fanny. And then again there was a pause. Mrs. Roharts
hardly dared to look Lucy in the face. She had not betrayed
her trust, seeing that the secret had been told to Mark, not
by her, but by Lord Lufton ; but she could not but feel that
Lucy would think that she had betrayed it.
“ Very well,” said Lucy, trying to smile ; “ I have no objec-
tion in life.”
“But, Lucy, dear,” — and now Mrs. Robarts put her arm
round her sister-in-law’s waist, — “ he is coming here especially
to see you.”
“Oh; that makes a difference. I am afraid that I shall
be engaged. ”
“He has told everything to Mark,” said Mrs. Robarts.
Lucy now felt that her bravery was almost deserting her. She
hardly knew which way to look or how to stand. Had Fanny
told everything also? There was so much that Fanny knew
that Lord Lufton could not ha^e known. But, in truth, Fanny
had told all — the whole story of Lucy’s love, and had described
the reasons which had induced her to reject her suitor ; and
had done so in words which, had Lord Lufton heard them,
would have made him twice as passionate in his love. And
then it certainly did occur to Lucy to think why Lord Lufton
should have come to Framley and told all this history to her
brother. She attempted for a moment to make herself lielieve
that she was angry with him for doing so. But she was not
angry. She had not time to argue much about it, but there
came upon her a gratified sensation of having been remem-
bered, and thought of, and — loved. Must it not be so ?
Could it be possible that he himself would have told this tale
to her brother, if he did not still love her? Fifty times she
had said to herself that his offer had been an affair of the
moment, and fifty times she had been unhappy in so saying.
But this new coming of his could not be an affair of the
moment. She had been the dupe, she had thought, of an
absurd passion on her own part ; but now — how was it now ?
She did not bring herself to think that she should ever be
Lady Lufton. She had still, in some perversely obstinate
manner, made up her mind against that result. But yet,
nevertheless, it did in some unaccountable manner satisfy her
lo feel that Lord Lufton had himself come down to Framley
and himself told this story. “He has told everything to
3o 6 Framley Parsonage
Mark,” said Mrs. Robarts ; and then again there was a pause
for a moment, during which these thoughts passed through
Lucy’s mind.
“Yes,” said Mark, “he has told me all, and he is coming
here to-morrow morning that he may receive an answer from
yourself.”
“What answer?” said Lucy, trembling.
“Nay, dearest; who can say that but yourself?” and her
sister-in-law, as she spoke, pressed close against her. “You
must say that yourself.” Mrs. Robarts, in her long conversa-
tion with her husband, had pleaded strongly on Lucy’s behalf,
taking as it were a part against l^dy Lufton. She had said
that if Lord Lufton persevered in his suit, they at the parsonage
could not be justified in robbing I.ucy of all that she had won
for herself, in order to do Lady Lufton’s pleasure.
“ But she will think,” said Mark, “ that we have plotted and
intrigued for this. She will call us ungrateful, and will make
Lucy’s life wretched.” To which the wife had answered, th.at
all that must be left in God's hands. I'hey had not plotted
or intrigued. Lucy, though loving the man in her heart of
hearts, had already once refused him, because she would not
be thought to have snatched at so great a prize. But if Lord
Lufton loved her so warmly that he had come down there in
this manner, on purpose, as he himself had put it, that he
might Itarn his fate, then — so argued Mrs. Robarts — they two,
let their loyalty to Lady Lufton be ever so strong, could not
justify it to their consciences to stand between Lucy and her
lover. Mark had still somewhat demurred to this, suggesting
how terrible would be their plight if they should now encourage
Lord Lufton, and if he, after such encouragement, when they
should have quarrelled with Lady Lufton, should allow himself
to be led away from his engagement by his mother. To which
Fanny had answered that justice was justice, and that right
was right. Everything must be told to Lucy, and she must
judge for herself.
“ But I do not know what Lord Lufton wants,” said Lucy,
with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and now trembling more
than ever. “ He did come to me, and I did give him an
answer.”
“ And is that answer to be final ? ” said Mark — somewhat
cruelly, for Lucy had not yet been told that her lover had
made any repetition of his proposal. Fanny, however, deter-
mined that no injustice should be done, and therefore she at
last continued the story.
Salmon Fishing in Norway 307
“We know that you did give him an answer, dearest; but
gentlemen sometimes will not put up with one answer on such
a subject. Lord Lufton has declared to Mark that he means
to ask again. He has come down here on purpose to do so.”
“ And Lady Lufton ” said Lucy, speaking hardly above
a whisper, and still hiding her face as she leaned against her
sister^s shoulder.
“ Lord Lufton has not spoken to his mother about it,” said
Mark ; and it immediately became clear to Lucy, from the tone
of her brother’s voice, that he, at least, would not be pleased,
should she accept her lover’s vow.
“ You must decide out of your own heart, dear,” said Fanny,
generously. “ Mark and I know how well you have behave^
for I have told him everything.” Lucy shuddered and leaned
closer against her sister as this was said to her. “ I had no
alternative, dearest, but tc tell him. It was best so ; was
it not ? But nothing has been told to Lord Lufton. Mark
would not let him come here to-day, because it would have
flurried you, and he wished to give you time to think. But you
can see him to-morrow morning — can you not? and then
answer him.”
Lucy now stood perfectly silent, feeling that she dearly
loved her sister-in-law for her sisterly kindness — for that sisterly
wish to promote a sister’s love ; but still there was in her mind
a strong resolve not to allow Lord Lufton to come there under
the idea that he would be received as a favoured lover. Her
love was powerful, but so also was her pride ; and she could
not bring herself to bear the scorn which would lay in Lady
Lufton’s eyes. “ His mother will despise me, and then he will
despise me too,” she said to herself ; and with a strong gulp of
disappointed love and ambition she determined to persist.
“Shall we leave you now, dear; and speak of it again to-
morrow morning before he comes ? ” said Fanny.
“ That will be the best,” said Mark. “ Turn it in your mind
every way to-night. Think of it when you have said your
prayers — and, Lucy, come here to me ; ” — then, taking her in
his arms, he kissed her with a tenderness that was not customary
with him towards her. “ It is fair,” said he, “ that I should tell
you this : that 1 have perfect confidence in your judgment and
feeling ; and that I will stand by you as your brother in what-
ever decision you may come to. Fanny and I botli think that
you have behaved excellently, and are both of us sure that you
will do what is best. Whatever you do 1 will stick to you ; —
and so will Fanny.”
3o 8 Framley Parsonage
“ Dearest, dearest Mark ! ”
“ And now we will say nothing more about it till to-morrow
morning,” said Fanny. But Lucy felt that this saying nothing
more about it till to-morrow morning would be tantamount to
an acceptance on her part of Lord Lufton’s offer. Mrs. Robarts
knew, and Mr. Robarts also now knew, the secret of her heart ;
and if, such being the case, she allowed Lord Lufton to come
there with the acknowledged purpose of pleading his own suit,
it would be impossible for her not to yield. If she were
resolved that she would not yield, now was the time for her to
stand her ground and make her dght. “ Do not go, Fanny ;
at least not quite yet,” she said.
“Well, dear?”
“ 1 want you to stay while 1 tell Mark. He must not let
Lord Lufton come here to-morrow.”
“ Not let him ! ” said Mrs. Robarts. Mr. Robarts said
nothing, but he felt that his sister was rising in his esteem
from minute to minute.
“ No ; Mark must bid him not come. He will not wish
to pain me when it can do no good. Look here, Mark and
she w’alked over to her brother, and put both her hands upon
his arm. “ I do love Lord Lufton. I had no such meaning
or thought when 1 first knew him. But I do love him — I love
him dearly ; — ^almost as well as Fanny loves you, I suppose.
You may tell him so if you think proper — nay, you must tell
him so, or he will not understand me. But tell him this, as
coming from me: that I will never marry him, unless his
mother asks me.”
“ She will not do that, I fear,” said Mark, sorrowfully.
“No; I suppose not,” said Lucy, now regaining all her
courage. “ If I thought it probable that she should wish me to
be her daughter-in-law, it would not be necessary that I should
make such a stipulation. It is because she will not wish it ;
because she would regard me as unfit to — to — to mate with her
son. She would hate me, and scorn me ; and then he would
begin to scorn me, and perhaps would cease to love me.
1 could not bear her eye upon me, if she thought that I had
injured her son. Mark, you will go to him now; will you
not ? and explain this to him ; — ^as much of it as is necessary.
Tell him, that if his mother asks me 1 will — consent. But that
as I know that she never will, he is to look upon all that he has
said as forgotten. With me it shall be the same as though it
were forgotten.” Such was her verdict, and so confident were
they both of her firmness — of her obstinacy Mark would have
Salmon Fishing in Norway 309
called it on any other occasion, — that they neither of them
sought to make her alter it.
“ Vou will go to him now — this afternoon; will you not?”
she said ; and Mark promised that he would. He could not
but feel that he himself was greatly relieved. Lady Lufton
might, probably, hear that her son had been fool enough to
fall in love with the parson's sister ; but under existing cir-
cumstances she could not consider herself aggrieved either by
the parson or by his sister. Lucy was behaving well, and Mark
was proud of her. Lucy was behaving with fierce spirit, and
Fanny was grieving for her.
“Fd rather be by myself till dinner-time,” said Lucy, as
Mrs. Robarts prepared to go with her out of the room.
“ Dear Fanny, don't look unhappy ; there’s nothing to make us
unhappy. I told you I should want goat’s milk, and that will
be all.” Robarts, after sitting for an hour with his wife, did
return again to Framley Court; and, after a considerable
search, found Lord Lufton returning home to a late dinner.
** Unless my mother asks her,” said he, when the story had
been told him. “ That is nonsense. Surely you told her that
such is not the way of the world.” Robarts endeavoured to
explain to him that Lucy could not endure to think that her
husband’s mother should look on her with disfiivour.
“ Does she think that my mother dislikes her ; her specially ? ”
asked Lord Lufton. No ; Robarts could not suppose that that
was the case ; but Lady Lufton might probably think that a
marriage with a clergyman’s sister would be a mesalliance.
“ That is out of the question,” said Lord Lufton ; “ as she
has especially wanted me to marry a clergyman’s daughter for
some time past. But, Mark, it is absurd talking about my
mother. A man in these days is not to marry as his
mother bids him.” Mark could only assure him, in answer to
all this, that Lucy was very firm in what she was doing, that
she had quite made up her mind, and that she altogether
absolved Lord Lufton from any necessity to speak to his
mother, if he did not think well of doing so. But all this was
to very little purpose. “She does love me then?” said Lord
Lufton.
Well,” said Mark, “ I will not say whether she does or does
not. I can only repeat her own message. She cannot accept
you, unless she does so at your mother’s request.” And
having said that again, he took his leave, and went back to the
parsonage. Poor Lucy, having finished her interview with so
much dignity, having fully satisfied her brother, and declined
310 Frainley Parsonage
any immediate consolation from her sister-in-law, betook her-
self to her own bedroom. She had to think over what she
had said and done, and it was necessary that she should be
alone to do so. It might be that, when she came to reconsider
the matter, she would not be quite so well satisfied as was her
brother. Her grandeur of demeanour and slow propriety of
carriage lasted her till she was well into her own room. There
are animals who, when they are ailing in any way, contrive to
hide themselves, ashamed, as it were, that the weakness of
their suffering should be witnessed. Indeed, I am not sure
whether all dumb animals do not do so more or less ; and in
this respect Lucy was like a dumb animal. Even in her con-
fidences with Fanny she made a joke of he* own misfortunes,
and spoke of her heart ailments with self-ridicule. But now,
having walked up the staircase with no hurried step, and
having deliberately locked the door, she turned herself round
to suffer in silence and solitude — as do the beasts and birds.
She sat herself down on a low chair, which stood at the foot of
her bed, and, throwing back her head, held her handkerchief
across her eyes and forehead, holding it tight in both her
hands : and then she began to think. She began to think and
also to cry, for the tears came running down from beneath the
handkerchief ; and low sobs were to be heard — only that the
animal had taken itself off, to suffer in solitude. Had she not
thrown from her all her chances of happiness ? Was it possible
that he should come to her yet again — a third time ? No ; it
was not possible. The very mode and pride of this, her second
rejection of him, made it impossible. In coming to her deter-
mination, and making her avowal, she had been actuated by
the knowledge that I^dy Lufton would regard such a marriage
with abhorrence. Lady Lufton would not and could not ask
her to condescend to be her son*s bride. Her chance of
happiness, of glory, of ambition, of love, was all gone. She
had sacrificed everything, not to virtue, but to pride ; and she
had sacrificed not only herself, but him. When first he came
there — when she had meditated over his first visit — she had
hardly given him credit for deep love ; but now — there could
be no doubt that he loved her now. After his season in
London, his days and nights passed with all that was beautiful,
he had returned there, to that little country parsonage, that he
might again throw himself at her feet And she — she had
refused ^o see him, though she loved him with all her heart,
she had refused to see him because she was so vile a coward
that she could not bear the sour looks of an old woman I “ I
The Goat and Compasses 31 1
will come down directly,” she said, when Fanny at last knocked
at the door, begging to be admitted. “ I won't open it, love,
^ut I will be with you in ten minutes ; I will, indeed.” And
so she was ; not, perhaps, without traces of tears, discernible
by the experienced eye of Mrs. Robarts, but yet with a smooth
brow, and voice under her own command.
“I wordcr whether she really loves him,” Mark said to his
wife that night.
“ Love him ! ” his wife had answered : “ indeed she does ;
and, Mark, do not be led away by the stern quiet of her
demeanour. To my thinking she is a girl who might almost
die for love.” ^
On the next d^ Lord Lufton left Framley ; and started,
according to his arrangements, for the Norway salmon fishing.
CHAPTER XXXII
THE GOAT AND COMPASSES
Harold Smith had been made unhappy by that rumour of
a dissolution ; but the misfortune to him would be as nothing
com})ared to the severity with which it would fall on Mr.
Sower by. Harold Smith might or might not lose his borough,
but Mr. Sowerby would undoubtedly lose his county ; and, in
losing that, he would lose everything. He felt very certain now
that the duke would not support him again, let who would be
master of Chaldicotes ; and as he reflected on these things he
found it very hard to keep up his spirits. Tom Towers, it
seems, had known all about it, as he always does. The little
remark which had dropped from him at Miss Dunstable’s, made,
no doubt, after mature deliberation, and with profound political
motives, was the forerunner, only by twelve hours, of a very
general report that the giants were going to the country. It
was manifest that the giants had not a majority in Pailiament,
generous as had been the promises of support disinterestedly
made to them by the gods. This indeed was manifest, and
therefore they were going to the country, although they had
beipn deliberately warned by a very prominent scion of
<»mpus that if they did do so that disinterested support must
W withdrawn. This threat did not seem to weigh much, and
by two o'clock on the day following Miss Dunstable’s party, the
fiat was presumed to have gone forth. The rumour had begun
with Tom Towers, but by that time it had reached Buggins at
the Petty Bag Office. It won't make no difiference to hus,
312 Framley Parsonage
sir ; will it, Mr. R charts ? ” said Bug;j;ins, as he leaned respc
fully against the wall near the door, in the room of the privi
secretary at that establishment.
A good deal of conversation, miscellaneous, special, a*
political, went on between young R(>barts and Buggins in t»
course of the day; as was natural, seeing that they wt.'
thrown in these evil times very much upon each other. Ti
I-ord Petty Bag of the present ministry was not such a one :
Harold Smith. He was a giant indifferent to his private note
and careless as to the duties even of patronage ; he rave
visited the office, and as there were no other clerks in tl
establishment — owing to a root and branch-reform carried o
in the short reign of Harold Smith — to whom could youi
Robarts talk, if not to Buggins ? “ No ; I suppose not,” s:,
Robarts, as he completed on his blotting-paper an elaborr*
picture of a Turk seated on his divan.
“ 'Cause, you sec, sir, we're in the Upper 'Ouse, now — a.
always thinks we bought to be. I don't think it ain't cc
stitutional for the Petty Bag to be in the Commons, \
Robarts. Hany ways, it never usen't."
“They're changing all those sort of things now-a-da)
Buggins,” said Robarts, giving the final touch to the Turk
smoke.
“ Well ; I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Robarts : I think I'll ^
I can't .stand all these changes. I'm turned of sixty now,
don't want any 'stiflii cates. I think I’ll take my pension a.^
walk. The hoffice ain't the same place at all since it cor
down among the Commons.” And then Buggins retir<
sighing, to console himself with a pot of j)orlcr bcliind a lar.
open office ledger, set up on end on a small table in the li^
lobby outside the private secretary’s room. Buggins sig'
again as he saw that the date made visible in the open b(‘,,
was almost as old as his own appointment ; for such a book
this lasted long in the Petty Bag Office. A peer of h'^^’
degree had been Lord Petty Bag in those days ; one whor'^j
messenger's heart could respect with infinite veneratirm, as ^
made his unaccustomed visits to the office with much solem.^^
— perhaps four times during the season. The l^ord Petty
then waj highly regarded by his staff, and his coming
them was talked about for some hours previously and for sc
days afterwards ; but Harold Smith had bustled in and out li *
the managing clerk in a Manchester house. “The service./
going to the* dogs,” said Buggins to himself, as he put do ^
the porter pot, and looked up over the book at a gentleman
The Goat and Compasses 313
f -esented himself at the door. “ Mr. Robarts in his room ? ”
id Buggins, repeating the gentleman’s words. “Yes, Mr.
, owerby j you’ll find him there — first door to the left.” And
t/.en, remembering that the visitor was a county member — a
y^sition which Buggiris regarded as next to that of a peer — he
pt up, and, opening the private secretary’s door, ushered in
‘ le visitor.
• Young Robarts and Mr. Sowerby had, of course, become
cquainted in the days of Harold Smith’s reign. During that
hort time the member for East Barset had on most days
ropped in at the Petty Bag Office for a minute or two, finding
Qt what the energetic cabinet minister was doing, chatting on
.imi-official subjects, and teaching the private secretary to
ugh at his master. There was nothing, therefore, in his
ij'esent visit which utvd appear to be singular, or which
squired any immediate special explanation. He sat himself
wn in his ordinary way, and began to speak of the subject
the day. “ We’re all to go,” said Sowerby.
“ So I hear,” said the private secretary. “ It will give me
) trouble, for, as the respectable Buggins says, we’re in the
pper House now.”
“What a delightful time those lucky dogs of lords do have!”
lid Sowerby. “ No constituents, no turning out, no fighting,
n necessity for political opinions ; and, as a rule, no such
jii'nions at all 1 ”
^ ‘ I suppose you’re tolerably safe in East Barsetshire ? ” said
^obarts. “ The duke has it pretty much his own way there.”
“ Yes ; the duke does have it pretty much his own way.
y-the-by, where is your brother?’'
“ At home,” said Robarts ; “ at least I presume so.”
* “ At Framley or at Barchester? I believe he was in
i^ dence at Barchester not long since.”
‘ He’s at Framley now, I know. I got a letter only yesterday
“ nn his wife, with a commission. He was there, and Lord
' fton had just left.”
^ Yes ; Luftf)n was down. He started for Norway this
th^rning. 1 want to see your brother. You have not heard
L rij him yourself, have you?”
No ; not lately. Mark is a bad correspondent. He would
S do at all for a private secretary.”
^ At any rate, not to Harold Smith. But you are sure I
I ould not catch him at Barchester ? ”
“ Send down by telegraph, and he would meet you.”
[ th * ^ don’t want to do ihat A lelegnph mess.ige makes such
314 Framley Parsonage
a fuss in the country, frightening people’s wives, and setting:,
all the horses about the place galloping.”
“ What is it ai)OUt ? ”
“Nothing of any great consequence. I didn’t know whether
he might have told you. I’ll write down by to-night’s post^
and then he can meet me at Barchester to-morrow. Or do yoU
write. There’s nothing I hate so much as letter-writing ; just'
tell him that I called, and that 1 shall be much obliged if he
can meet me at the Dragon of Wantly — say at two to-moirow.
I will go down by the express.”
Mark Robarts, in talking over this coming money trouble
with Sowerby, had once mentioned that if it were necessary to
take up the bill for a short time he might be able to borrow
the money from his brother. So much of the father’s legacy
still remained in the hands of the private secretary as would
enable him to produce the amount of the latter bill, and there
could be no doubt that he would lend it if asked. Mr.
Sowerby’s visit to the Petty Bag Office had been caused by a
desire to learn whether any such request had been made — ^and
also by a half-formed resolution to make the request himself if he
should find that the clergyman had not done so. It seemed
to him to be a pity that such a sum should be lying about, as
it were, within reach, and that he should not stoop to put his
hands upon it. Such abstinence would be so contrary to ajj
the practice of his life that it was as difficult to him as it is for
a sportsman to let pass a cock -pheasant. But yet something
like remorse touched his heart as he sat there balancing him-
self on his chair in the private secretary’s room, and looking at
the young man’s open face.
“ Yes ; I’ll write to him,” said John Robarts ; “ but he hasn’t
said anything to me about anything particular.”
“ Hasn’t he ? It does not much signify. I only mentioned
It because I thought I understood him to say that he would.”
And then Mr. Sowerby went on swinging himself. How was
it that he felt so averse to mention that little sum of 500/. to»
young man like John Robarts, a fellow without wife or children
or calls on him of any sort, who would not even be injured by
the loss of the money, seeing that he had an ample salary op
which to live ? He wondered at his own weakness. The waM
of the money was urgent on him in the extreme. He hw
reasons for supposing that Mark would find it very difficult m
renew the bills, but he, Sow'erby, could stop their presentation
if he could get this money at once into his own hands.
“Can I do anything for you?” said the innocent lamb,
The Goat and Compasses 315
offering his throat to the butcher. But some unwonted feeling
numbed the butcher's fingers, and blunted his knife. He sat
still for half a minute after the question, and then jumping
from his seat, declined the offer. “ No, no ; nothing, thank
you. Only write to Mark, and say that I shall be there to-
morrow,” and then, taking his hat, he hurried out of the office.
“ What an ass I am,” he said to himself as he went : “ as if it
were of any use now to be particular.”
He then got into a cab and had himself driven halfway up
Portman Street towards the New Road, and walking from
thence a few hundred yards down a cross-street he came to a
public-house. It was called “The Goat and Compasses,” — a
very meaningless name, one would say ; but the house boasted
of being a place of public entertainmert very long established
on that site, having bcei> a tavern out in the country in the
days of Cromwell. At that time the pious landlord, putting up
a pious legend for the benefit of his pious customers, had
declared that — “ God encompasseth us.” The “ Goat and
Compasses ” in these days does quite as well ; and, considering
the present character of the house, was perhaps less unsuitable
than the old legend. “Is Mr. Austen here?” asked Mr.
Sowerby of the man at the bar.
“ Which on 'em ? Not Mr. John ; he ain't here. Mr. Tom
is in — the little room on the left-hand side.” The man whom
Mr. Sowerby would have preferred to see was the elder brother,
John; but as he was not to be found, he did go into the
little room. In that room he found — Mr. Austen, Junior,
according to one arrangement of nomenclature, and Mr. Tom
Tozer according to another. To ge.ntlemen of the legal
profession he generally chose to introduce himself as belonging
to the respectable family of the Austens ; but among his
intimates he had always been — Tozer. Mr. Sowerby, though
he was intimate with the family, did not love the Tozers : bu-t
he especially hated Tom Tozer. Tom Tozer was a bull-necked,
beetle-browed fellow, the expression of whose face was eloquent
with acknowledged roguery. “ I am a rogue,” it seemed to say.
“ I know it ; all the world knows it : but you're another.
All the world don*t know that, but I do. Men are all rogues,
pretty nigh. Some are soft rogues, and some are 'cute rogues.
I am a 'cute one ; so mind your eye.” It was with such words
that Tom Tozer’s face spoke out ; and though a thorough liar
in his heart, he was not a liar in his face. “ Well, Tozer,” said
Mr. Sowerby, absolutely shaking hands with the dirty miscreant^
“ 1 wanted to see your brother.”
3i 6 Framley Parsonage
“John ain^t here, and ain’t like; but it’s all as one.”
“Yes, yes ; I suppose it is. I know you two hunt in
couples.”
“I don’t know what you mean about hunting, Mr. Sowerby,
You gents ’as all the hunting, and we poor folk ’as all the work.
1 hope you’rt: going to make up this trifle of money we’re out
of so long.”
“ It’s about that I’ve called. I don’t know what you call
long, Tozer ; but the last bill was only dated in February.”
“ It’s overdue ; ain’t it ? ”
“ Oh, yes ; it’s overdue. There’s no doubt about that.”
“ Well ; when a bit of paper is come round, the next thing is
to take it up. Them’s my ideas. And to tell you the truth,
Mr. Sowerby, we don’t think as *ow you’ve been treating us just
on the sqn?re lately. In that matter of Lord Lufton’s you was
down on us unconiinon.”
“ You know I couldn’t help myself.”
“ Well ; and we can’t help ourselves now. That’s where it i-.,
Mr. Sow^erby . Lord love you ; we know wh.ii’s what, we do.
And so, the fact is we’re uncommon low as to ihe ready just at
present, and we must have them few hundred pounds. We
must have them at c.nce, or we must sell up that cleiical gent.
I’m dashed if it ain’t as hard to get money from a parson as it is
to take a )j«;ne from a dog. ’E’s ’ad ’is account, no doubt, and
Virhy don’t 'e pay ? ” Mr. Sowerby had called with the intention
of explaining that he was about to proceed to Barchestcr on the
following day with the expi ess view’ of “ making arrangements ”
about this bill; and had he seen John Tozer, John would have
been compelled to accord to him some little extension of tune.
Both ron; and John knew this ; and, ihcrelore, John—the soft-
hearted one — kept out of the way. There was no dairaer that
Tom would be weak ; and, after some half-hour of [urley, he
was again left by Mr. Sowerby, without having evinced any
symptom of w’eakness.
“It’s the dibs as wx* want, Mr. Sowerby; that’s all,” were the
last words which he spoke as the member of Parliament leit
the room. Mr. Sowerby then got 'nto another cab, and had
himself driven to his sister’s house. It is a remarkable thing
with reference to men who are distressed for money — distressed
as was now the case with Mr. Sowerby — that they never seem
at a loss for small sums, or deny themselves those luxuries
which small sums purchase. Cabs, dinners, wine, theatres,
and new gloves are always at the command of men who aie
drowned in pecuniary embarrassments, whereas those who
The Goat and Compasses 317
don’t owe a shilling are so frequently obliged to go without
them ! It would seem that there is no gratification so costly as
that of keeping out of debt. But then it is only fair that, if a
man has a hobby, he should pay for it. Any one else would
have saved his shilling, as Mrs. Harold Smith’s house was only
just across Oxford Street, in the neighbourhood of Hanover
Square ; but Mr. Sowerby never thought of this. He had
never savvd a shilling in his life, and it did not occur to him
to begin now. He had sent word to her to remain at home
for hull, and he now found her waiting. “ Harriet,” said he,
throwing himself bark into an easy chair, “ the game is pretty
well up at last.”
“ Nonsense,” said she. “The game is not up at all if you
have the spirit to carry it on.”
“ I can only say that I got a formal notice this morning from
the duke’s lawyer, saying that he meant to foreclose at once ; —
not from Fothergill, but fioui those peo[)le in South Audley
Street.”
“ You expected that,” said his sister.
“ I don’t see how that makes it any better ; besides, I am not
quite sure that I did expect it ; at any rate I did not feel certain.
I'here is no doubt now.”
“ It is better that there should be no doubt. It is much
better that you should know on what ground you have to
stand.”
“1 shall soon have no ground to stand on, none at least of
iiiy own, — not an acre,” said the unhappy man, with great
bitterness in his tone.
“ You can’t in reality be poorer now thin you were last year.
You have not spent anything to speak of. There can be no
doubt that Chaldicotes will be ample to pay all you owe the
duke.”
“It’s as much as it will; and what am I to do then?
I almost think more of the scat than I do of Chaldicotes.”
“Yon know what I advise,” said Mrs. Smith. “Ask Misa
Dunstable to advance the money on the same security which
the duke holds. She will be as safe then as he is now. And
if you can arrange that, stand for the county against him ;
perhaps you may be beaten.”
“ I shouldn’t have a ch,mce.”
“ But it would show that you are not a creature in the duke’s
hands. That’s my advice,” said Mrs. Smith, with much spirit ;
“and if you wish. I’ll broach it to Miss Dunstable, and ask hei
o get her lawyer to look into it.”
31 8 Framley Parsonage
“ If I had done this before I had run my head into that
other absurdity ! ”
“ Don*t fret yourself about that ; she will lose nothing by
such an investment, and therefore you are not asking any favour
of her. Besides, did she not make the offer ? and she is just
the woman to do this for you now, because she refused to do
that other thing for you yesterday. You understand most
things, Nathaniel ; but I am not sure that you understand
women ; not, at any rate, such a woman as her.” It went
against the grain with Mr. Sowerby, this seeking of pecuniary
assistance from the very woman whose hand he had attempted
to gain about a fortn ght since ; but he allowed his sister
to prevail. What could any man do in such straits that would
not go against the grain ? At the present moment he felt in
his mind an infinite hatred against the duke, Mr. Fothergill,
Gumption and Gagebee, and all the tribes of Gatherum Castle
and South Audley Street ; they wanted to rob him of that which
had belonged to the Sowerbys before the name of Omnium had
been heard of in the country, or in England ! The great
leviathan of the deep was anxious to swallow him up as
a prey 1 He was to be swallowed up, and made away with,
and put out of sight, without a pang of remorse. Any measure
which could now present itself as the means of staving off so
evil a day would be acceptable ; and therefore he gave his
sister the commission of making this second proposal to Miss
Dunstable. In cursing the duke — for he did curse the duke
lustily — it hardly occurred to him to think that, after all, the
duke only asked for his own. As for Mrs. Harold Smith,
whatever may be the view taken of her general character as a
wife and a member of society, it must be admitted that as a sister
she had virtues.
CHAPTER XXXJII
CONSOLATION
On the next day, at two o’clock punctually, Mark Robarts
was at the “ Dragon of Wantly,” walking up and down the very
room in which the party had breakfasted after Harold Smith’s
lecture, and waiting for the arrival of Mr. Sowerby. He had
been very well able to divine what was the business on which
his friend wished to see him, and he had been rather glad than
otherwise to receive the summons. Judging of his friend’s
character by what he had hitherto seen, he thought that Mr.
Sowerby would have kept out of the way, unless he bad it in
Consolation 319
his power to make some provision for these terrible bills. So
he walked up and down the dingy room, impatient for the
expected arrival, and thought himself wickedly ill-used in that
Mr. Sowerby was not there when the clock struck a quarter to
three. But when the clock struck three, Mr. Sowerby was
there, and Mark Robarts* hopes were nearly at an end.
“ Do you mean that they will demand nine hundred
pounds ’’ said Robarts, standing up and glaring angrily at the
member of Parliament.
“ I fear that they will,” said Sowerby. “ I think it is best
to tell you the worst, in order that we may see what can be
done.”
“ I can do nothing, and will do nothing,” said Robarts.
“ They may do what they choose — what the law allows them.”
And then he thought of Fanny and his nursery, and Lucy
refusing in her pride Lord Lufton's offer, and he turned away
his face that the hard man of the world before him might not
see the tear gathering in his eye.
“ But, Mark, my dear fellow ” said Sowerby, trying to
have recourse to the power of his cajoling voice. Robarts,
however, would not listen.
“ Mr. Sow’erby,” said he, with an attempt at calmness which
betrayed itself at every syllable, “ it seems to me that you have
robbed me. That I have been a fool, and worse than a fool,
I know well ; but — but — hut I thought that your position in
the world would guarantee me from such treatment as this.”
Mr. Sowerby was by no means wdlhout feeling, and the words
which he now heard cut him very deeply — the more so because
it was impossible that he should answer them with an attempt
at indignation. He had robbed his friend, and, with all his
wit, knew no words at the present moiiient sufficiently witty to
make it seem that he had not done so. “ Robarts,” said he,
“you may say what you like to me now; I shall not resent
it.”
“Who would care for your resentment?” said tlie clergy-
man, turning on him with ferocity. “ The resentment of a
gentleman is terrible to a gentleman ; and the resentment of
one just man is terrible to another. Your resentment ! ” — ^and
then he walked twice the length of the room, leaving Sowerby
dumb in his seat. “ I wonder whether you ever thought of
my wife and children when you were plotting this ruin for
me I ” And then again he walked the room.
“ I suppose you will be calm enough presently to speak of
this with some attempt to make a settlement ? ”
♦l
320 Framley Parsonage
“ No ; I will make no such attempt. These friends of yours,
you tell rue, have a claim on me for nine hundred pounds, of
which they demand immediate payment. You shall he asked
in a court of law how much of that money I have handled.
You know that I have never touched — have never wanted to
touch — one shilling. I will make no attempt at any settle-
ment. My person is here, and there is my house. Let them
do their worst.’*
“ But, Mark "
“Call me by my name, sir, and drop that affectation of
regard. What an ass I have been to be so cozened by a
sharper ! ” Sowerby had by no means expected this. He had
always known that Robarts possessed what he, Sowerby, would
have called the spirit of a gentleman. He had regarded him as
a bold, open, generous fellow, able to take his own part when
called on to do so, and by no means disinclined to speak his
own mind ; but he had not expected from him such a torrent of
indignation, or thought that he was capable of such a depth of
anger. “ If you use such language as that, Robarts, I can
only leave you.”
“You are welcome. Go. You tell me that you are the
messenger of these men who intend to work nine hundred
pounds out of me. You have done your part in the plot, and
have now brought their message. It seems to me that you
had better go back to them. As for me, I want my time to
prepare my wife for the destiny before her.*’
“ Robarts, you will be sorry some day for the cruelty of
your words.”
“ I wonder whether you will ever be sorry for the cruelty
of your doings, or whether these things are really a joke to
you ? ”
“ I am at this moment a ruined man,” said Sowerby.
“ Everything is going from me, — my place in the world, the
estate of my family, my father s house, my seat in Parliament,
the power of living among my countrymen, or, indeed, of living
anywhere ; — but all this does not oppress me now so much as
the misery which I have brought upon you.” And then
Sowerby also turned away his face, and wiped from his eyes
tears which were not artificial. Robarts was still walking up
and down the room, but it was not possible for him to continue
his reproaches after this. This is always the case. Let a man
endure to heap contumely on his own head, and he will silence
the contulnely of others — for the moment. Sowerby, without
meditating on the matter, had had some inkling of this, and
Consolation 321
immediately saw that there was at last an opening for conversa-
tion. “ You are unjust to me,” said he, “ in supposing that 1
have now no wish to save you. It is solely in the hope of
doing so that I have come here.”
“ And what is your hope ? That I should accept anotlier
brace of hills, I suppose.”
“ Not a brace ; but one renewed bill for ”
“Look here, Mr. Sowerby. On no earthly consideration
that can be put before me will I again sign my narne to any
bill in the guise of an acceptance. I have been very weak,
and am ashamed of my weakness ; but so much strength as
that, I hope, is left to tti j, I have l)een very wicked, and am
ashamed of my wickedness ; but so much right principle as
that, I hope, remains. 1 will put my name to no other bill ;
not for you, not even for ' lyself.”
“ Lut, RoLarts, under your present circumstances that will
he madness.”
“Then 1 be mad.”
“Have you seen Korrest r If you will opc.ik to him I think
you will find that everything can be accommodated.”
“I already owe Mr. Forrest a hundred and fifty pounds,
which I obtained from him when you pressed me for the price
of that horse, and I will not increase the debt. What a fool I
was again there I Pcrha[)s you do not remember that, when I
agreed to buy the horse., the price was to be my contribution
to the liquidation of tiie^^e bills.”
“ I do remember it ; but 1 will tell you how that was.”
“ It does not signify. It has been all of a piece.”
“ But listen to me. I think you would feel for me if you
knew all that I have gone through. I pledge you my solemn
word that I had no intention of asking you for tl)e money
when you took the horse ; — indeed I had not. But you
remember that affair of Lufton’s, when he came to you at
your hotel in London and was so angry about an outstanding
bill.”
“ I know that he was very unreasonable as far as I was
concerned.”
“ He was so ; but that makes no difference. He w'as
rosolvcd, in his rage, to expose the whole affair ; and I
saw that, if he did so, it would be most injurious to you,
seeing that you had just accepted your stall at Barchester.”
I lei e the poor prebendary winced terribly. “ I moved heaven
and earth to get up that bill. Those vultures stuck to their
pre> when they found the value which I attached to it, and 1
322 Framley Parsonage
was forced to raise above a hundred pounds at the moment to
obtain possession of it, although every shilling absolutely due
on it had long since been paid. Never in my life did 1 wish
to get money as 1 did to raise that hundred and twenty pounds :
and as I hope for mercy in my last moments, I did that for
your sake. Lufton could not have injured me in that matter.”
“ But you told him that you got it for twenty-five
pounds.”
“ Yes, I told him so. I was obliged to tell him that, or I
should have apparently condemned myself by showing how
anxious I was to get it. And you know I could not have
explained all this before him and you. You would have
thrown up the stall in disgust.” Would that he had ! That
was Mark’s wish now, — his futile wish. In what a slough
of despond had he come to wallow in consequence of his
folly on that night at Gatherum Castle ! He had then done
a silly thing, and was he now to rue it by almost total ruin ?
He was sickened also with all these lies. His very soul was
dismayed by the dirt through which he was forced to w’ade.
He had become unconsciously connected with the lowest dregs
of mankind, and would have to see his name mingled with
theirs in the daily newspapers. And for what had he done
this? Why had he thus filed his mind and made himself
a disgrace to his cloth ? In order that he might befriend
such a one as Mr. Sowerby!
“ Well,” continued Sowerby, “ I did get the money, but you
would hardly believe the rigour of the pledge which was exacted
from me for repayment. I got it from Harold Smith, and
never, in my worst straits, will I again look to him for assist-
ance. 1 borrowed it only for a fortnight ; and in order that
I might repay it, I was obliged to ask you for the price of
the horse. Mark, it was on your behalf that I did all this, —
indeed it was.”
“ And now I am to repay you for your kindness by the loss
of all that I have in the world.”
“ If you will put the affair into the hands of Mr. Forrest,
nothing need be touched, — not a hair of a horse's back ; no,
not though you should be obliged to pay the whole amount
yourself gradually out of your income. You must execute a
series of bills, falling due quarterly, and then ”
“ I will execute no bill, I will put my name to no paper in
the matter ; as to that my mind is fully made up. They may
come and do their worst.” Mr. Sowerby persevered for a long
time, but he was quite unable to move the parson from this
Consolation 323
position. He would do nothing towards making what Mr.
Sowerby called an arrangement, but persisted that he would
remain at home at Framley, and that any one who had a claim
upon him might take legal steps. “ I shall do nothing myself,”
he said ; “ but if proceedings against me be taken, I shall prove
that I have never had a shilling of the money.” And in this
resolutio*^ he quitted the Dragon of Wantly. Mr. Sowerby
at one time said a word as to the expediency of borrowing that
sum of money from John Robarts; but as to this Mark would
say nothing. Mr. Sowerby was not the friend with whom he
now intended to hold consultation in such matters. “ I am
not at present prepared,” he said, “ to declare what I may do ;
I must first see what steps others take.” And then he took
his hat and went off ; and mounting his horse in the yard of
the Dragon of \V aiitly- ~ that horse which he had now so many
reasons to dislike — he slowly rode back home.
Many thoughts passed through his mind during that ride,
but only one resolution obtained for itself a fixture there. He
must now tell his wife everything. He would not be so cruel
as to let it remain untold until a bailifiF were at the door, ready
to walk him off to the county gaol, or until the bed on which
they slept was to be sold from under them. Yes, he would tell
her everything, — immediately, before his resolution could again
have faded away. He got off his horse in the yard, and seeing
his wife's maid at the kitchen door, desired her to beg her
mistress to come to him in the book-room. He would not
allow one half-hour to pass towards the waning of his purpose.
If it be ordained that a man shall drown, had he not better
drown and have done with it ? Mrs. Robarts came to him in
his room, reaching him in time to touch his arm as he entered
it. ** Mary says you want me. 1 have been gardening, and she
caught me just as I came in.”
“Yes, Fanny, I do want you. Sit down for a moment.”
And walking across the room, he placed his whip in its proper
place.
“ Oh, Mark, is there anything the matter ? ”
“Yes, dearest; yes. Sit down, Fanny: I can talk to you
better if you will sit.” But she, poor lady, did not wish to sit.
He had hinted at some misfortune, and therefore she felt a
longing to stand by him and cling to him.
“ Well, there ; 1 will if I must ; but, Mark, do not frighten
me. Why is your face so very wretched ! ”
“ Fanny, I have done very wrong,” he said. “ I have been
very foolish. 1 fear that I have brought upon you great sorrow
324 Framley Parsonage
and trouble.” And then he leaned his head upon his liand
and turned his face away from her.
“ Oh, Mark, dearest Mark, my own Mark ! what is it ? ” and
then she was quickly up from her chair, and went down on her
knees before him. “l3o not turn from me. Tell me, Mark !
tell me, that we may share it.”
“ Yes, Fanny, I must tell you now ; but I hardly know what
you will think of me when you have heard it.”
“ 1 will think that you are my own husband, Mark ; I will
think that— that chiefly, whatever it may be.” And then she
caressed his knees, and looked up in his face, and, getting hold
of one of his hands, pressed it between her own. “ Even ii
you have been foolish, who should forgive you if I cannot?”
Ar.d then he told it her all, beginning from that evening when
Mr. Sowerby had got him into his bedroom, and going on
gradually, now about the bills, and now about the horses, till
his poor wife was utterly lost in the complexity of the accounts.
She could by no means follow him in the details of his story ;
nor could she quite sympathize with him in his indignation
against Mr. Sowerby, seeing that she did not comprehend at
all the nature of the renewing of a bill. The only part to her
of importance in the matter was the amount of money which
her husband would be called upon to pay ; that, and her strong
hope, which was already a conviction, that he would never again
incur such debts.
“ And how much is it, dearest, altogether ? ”
“ These men claim nine hundred pounds of me.”
“ Oh, dear ! that is a terrible sum.”
“ And then there is the hundred and fifty which I have
borrowed from the bank — the price of the horse, you know ;
and there are some ether debts, — not a great deal, I think ;
but people will now look for every shilling that is due to them. If
I have to pay it all, it will be twelve or thirteen hundred pounds,”
“ That will be as much as a year’s income, Mark ; even with
the stall.” That was the only word of reproach she said — if
that could be called a reproach.
“ Ycb,” he said; “and it is claimed by men who will have
no pity in exacting it at any sacrifice, if they have the power.
And to think that I should have incurred all this debt without
having received anything for it. Oh, Fanny, what will you
think of me ! ” But she svrore to him that she would think
nothing of it — that she would never bear it in her mind against
him — that it could have no effect in lessening her trust in him.
Was he not her husband ? She was so glad she knew it, that
Lady Lufton is Taken by Surprise 325
stie might comfort him. And she did comfort him, making
the weight seem lighter and lighter on his shoulders as he
talked of it. And such weights do thus become lighter. A
burden that will crush a single pair of shoulders will, when
equally divided — when shared by two, each of whom is willing
to take the heavier part — become light as a feather. Is not
that sharing of the mind’s burdens one of the chief purposes
for which a man wants a wife ? For there is no folly so great
as keeping one’s sorrows hidden. And this wife cheerfully,
gladly, thankfully took her share. To endure with her lord all
her lord’s troubles was easy to her ; it was the work to which
she had pledged herself. But to ha/e thought that her lord
had troubles not communicated to her, — that would have been
to her the one ihing not to be borne. And then they discussed
their plans ; what mode of escape they might have out of this
terrible money difficulty. Like a trie woman, Mrs. Robarts
proposed at once to abandon all superfluities. They would
sell all their horses ; they would not sell their cows, but would
sell the butter that came from them; :hey would sell the pony-
carriage, and get rid of the groom. That the footman must go
was so much a matter of course, that it was hardly mentioned.
But then, as to that house at Barchester, the dignified pre-
bendal mansion in the close — might they not be allowed to
leave it unoccupied for one year lorger — perhaps to let it?
The world of course must know of their misfortune ; but if
that misfortune was faced bravely, tlie world would be less
bitter in its condemnation. And then, above all things,
everything must be told to Lady Lifton.
“ You may, at any rate, believe this, Fanny,” said he, “ that
for no consideration which can be offe-ed to me will I ever put
my name to another bill.” The kiss with which she tiianked
him for this was as warm and generous as though he had
brought to her that day news of the brightest ; and when he
sat, as he did that evening, discussing it all, not only with his
wife, but with Lucy, he wondered how it was that his troubles
were now so light. Whether or no a man should have his
own private pleasures, I will not now say ; but it never can be
. worth his while to keep his sorrows private.
CHAPTER XXXIV
LADY LUFTON IS TAKEN BY SURPRISE
I.ORD Lufton, as he returned to town, found some difficulty
ill resolving what step he would next take. Sometimes, for a
326 Framley Parsonage
minute or two, he was half inclined to think— or rather to say
to himself — that Lucy was perhaps not worth the trouble
which she threw in his way. He loved her very dearly, and
would willingly make her his wife, he thought or said
at such moments ; but Such moments, however, were
only moments. A man in love seldom loves less because his
love becomes difficult. And thus, when those moments were
over, he would determine to tell his mother at once, and urge
her to signify her consent to Miss Robarts. That she would
not be quite pleased he knew ; but if he were firm enough to
show that he had a will of his own in this matter, she would
probably not gainsay him. He would not ask this humbly, as
a favour, but request her ladyship to go through the ceremony
as though it were one of those motherly duties which she as a
good mother could not hesitate to perform on behalf of her
son. Such was the final resolve with which he reached his
chambers in the Albany. On the next day he did not see his
mother. It would be well, he thought, to have his interview
with her immediately before he started for Norway, so that
there might be no repetition of it; and it was on the day
before he did start that he made his communication, having
invited himself to breakfast in Brook Street on the occasion.
“ Mother,” he said, quite abruptly, throwing himself into
one of the dining-room arm-chairs, “ I have a thing to tell
you.” His mother at once knew that the thing was important,
and with her own peculiar motherly instinct imagined that
the question to be discussed had reference to matrimony.
Had her son desired to speak to her about money, his tone and
look would have been different ; as would also have been the
case — in a different way — had he entertained any thought of a
pilgrimage to Pekin, or a prolonged fishing excursion to the
Hudson Bay territories. “ A thing, Ludovic ! well, I am quite
at liberty.”
“ I want to know what you think of Lucy Robarts.” Lady
Lufton became pale and frightened, and the blood ran cold to
her heart. She had feared more than rejoiced in conceiving
that her son was about to talk of love, but she had feared
nothing so bad as this.
“What do 1 think of Lucy Robarts?” she said, repeating
her son’s words in a tone of evident dismay.
“Yes, mother ; you have said once or twice lately that you
thought I ought to marry, and I am beginning to think so too.
You selected one clergyman’s daughter for me, but that lady is
going to do much better with herself ”
Lady Lufton is Taken by Surprise 327
“ Indeed she is not,” said Lady Lufton sharply.
“And therefore I rather think I shall select for myself
another clergyman’s sister. You don’t dislike Miss Ro harts, I
hope ? ”
“ Oh, Ludovic ! ” It was all that Lady Lufton could say at
the spur of the moment.
“Is there any harm in her? Have you any objection to
her ? Is there anything about her that makes her unfit to be
my wife?”
For a moment or two Lady Lufton sat silent, collecting her
thoughts. She thought that there was very great objection to
Lucy Robarts, regarding her as the possible future Lady
Lufton. She could hardly have stated all her reasons, but
they were very cug :r.t. Lucy Robaits had, in her eyes,
neither beauty, nor style, nor manner, tor even the education
which was desirable. Lady Lufton was not herself a worldly
woman. She was almost as far removed from being so as a
woman could be in her position. But, nevertheless, there
were certain worldly attribute^ which she regarded as essential
to the character of any young lady who might be considered
fit to take the place which she herself had so long filled. It was
her desire in looking for a wife for her son to combine these
with certain moral excellences which she regarded as equally
essential. Lucy Robarts might have the moral excellences, or
she might not ; but as to the other attributes Lady Lufton
regarded her as altogether deficient. She could never look
like a Lady Lufton, or carry herself in the county as a Lady
Lufton should do. She had not that quiet personal demeanour
— that dignity of repose — which Lady Lufton loved to look
upon in a young married woman of rank. Lucy, she would
have said, could be nobody in a room except by dint of her
tongue, whereas Griselda Giantly would have held her peace
for a whole evening, and yet would have impressed everybody
by the majesty of her presence. Then again Lucy had no
money — and, again, Lucy was only the sister of her own
parish clergyman. People are rarely prophets in their own
country, and Lucy was no prophet at Framley ; she was
none, at least, in the eyes of Lady Lufton. Once before,
as may be remembered, she had had fears on this subject —
fears, not so much for her son, whom she could hardly bring
herself to suspect of such a folly, but for Lucy, who might be
foolish enough to fancy that the lord was in love with her.
Alas ! alas ! her son’s question fell upon the poor woman at the
present moment with the weight of a terrible blow. “ Is there
328 Framley Parsonage
anything about her which makes her unfit to be my wife?”
Those were her son’s last words.
“ Dearest Ludovic, dearest Ludovic 1 ” and she got up and
came over to him, “ I do think so ; I do, indeed.”
“ Think what ? ” said he, in a tone that was almost angry.
“ I do think that she is unfit to be your wife. She is not of
that class from which I would wish to see you choose.”
“She is of the same class as Griselda Grantly.”
“ No, dearest. I dink you are in error there. The Grantlys
have moved in a diferent sphere of life. I think you must
feel that they are ”
“ Upon my word, mother, I don’t. One man is Rector of
Plumstead, and the other is Vicar of Framley. But it is no
good arguing that. I want you to take to Lucy Robarts. I
have come to you on purpose to ask it of you as a favour.”
“ Do you mean as vour wife, Ludovic ? ”
“ Yes ; as my wife. ’
“Am I to understand that you are — are engaged to her?”
“ Well, I cannot say that I am — not actually engaged to her.
But you may take this for granted, that, as far as it lies in my
power, 1 intend to become so. My mind is nivide up, and I
certainly shall not alter it.”
“ And the young \i,dy knows all this ? ”
“Certainly.”
“Horrid, sly, detestable, underhand giil!” Lady Lufton
said to herself^ not being by any means brave enough to
speak out such language before her son. What hope could
there be if Lord Lufton had already committed himself by a
positive offer ? “ And her brother, and Mrs. Robarts ; are
they aware of it ? ”
“Yes ; both of them.”
“ And both apjirove of it.”
“ Well, 1 cannot sr y that. I have not seen Mrs. Robarts,
and do nut know Avhat may be her 0[)inion. To s[‘(‘ak my
mind honestly about Mark, I do not think he does cordially
approve. He is afraid of you, and would be desirous of
knowing what you think.”
“ I am glad, at any rate, to hear that,” said Lady Lufton,
gravely. “ Had he done anything to encourage this, it would
have been very ba.se.” And then there was another shoit
period of silence. Lord Lufton had determined not to
explain to his mother the whole state of the case. fie
would not tell her that everything depended on her word —
that Lucy was ready to marry him only on condition that
Lady Lufton is Taken by Surprise 329
she, Lady Lufton, would desire her to do so. He would not
let her know that everything depended on her — according to
Lucy's present verdict. He had a strong disinclination to ask
his mother’s permission to get married ; and he would have to
ask it were he to tell her the whole truth. His object was to
make her think well of Lucy, and to induce her to be kind,
and generous, and affectionate down at Framley. Then things
would all turn out comfortably when he again visited that
place, as he intended to do on his return from Norway. So
much he thought it possible he might effect, relying on his
mother’s probable calculation that it would be useless for her
to oppose a measure which she had no power of stopping by
authority. But were he to tell her that she was to be the final
judge, that everything was to depend on her will, then, so
thought Lord liULon, chat permission would in all probability
be refused.
“ Well, mother, what answer do you intend to give me ? " he
said. ** My mind is positively made up. I should not have
come to you had not that been the case. You will now be
going down home, and I would wish yoj to treat Lucy as you
yourself would wish to treat any girl to vhorn you knew that I
was engaged.”
“ But you say that you are not engaged.”
“ No, I am not ; but I have made my offer to her, and I have
not been rejected. She has confessed that she — loves me, —
not to myself, but to her brother. Under these circumstances,
may I count upon your obliging me ? ” There was something
in his manner which almost frightened lis mother, and made
her think that there was more behind :han was told to her.
Generally speaking, his manner was open, gentle, and unguarded ;
but now he spoke as though he had prj pared his words, and
was resolved on being harsh as well as obstinate.
“ I am so much taken by surprise, Ludovie, that I can
hardly give you an answer. If you ask me wliether I approve
of such a marriage, I must say that I do not ; I think that you
would be throwing yourself away in marrying Miss Kobarts.”
“ That is because you do not know her.”
“ May it not be possible that I know her better than you do,
dear Ludovie? You have been flirting with her ■”
“ I hate that word ; it always sounds to me to be vulgar.”
“ I will say making love to her, if you like it better ; and
gentlemen under these ciicumstanccs will sometimes become
infatuated.”
“You would not have a niaii marry a girl wn-iout rnyking
^330 Framley Parsonage
love to her. The fact is, mother, that your tastes and mine
are not exactly the same; you like silent beauty, whereas 1
like talking beauty, and then ”
“ Do you call Miss Robarts beautiful ? ”
“Yes, I do ; very beautiful; she has the beauty that I admire.
Good-bye now, mother ; 1 shall not see you again before I
start. It will be no use writing, as I shall be away so short a
time, and I don't quite know where we shall be. I shall come
down to Framley immediately I return, and shall learn from
you how the land lies. I have told you my wishes, and you
will consider how far you think it right to fall in with them.'*
He then kissed her, and without waiting for her reply he took
his leave. Poor Lady Lufton, when she was left to herself, felt
that her head was going round and round. Was this to be the
end of all her ambitiori — of all her love for her son ? and was
this to be the result of all her kindness to the Robartses?
She almost hated Mark Robarts as she reflected that she had
been the means of bringing him and his sister to Framley.
She thought over all h s sins, his absences from the parish, his
visits to Gatherum Castle, his dealings with reference to that
farm which was to hcve been sold, his hunting, and then his
acceptance of that stdl, given, as she had been told, through
the Omnium interest How could she love him at such a
moment at this ? And then she thought of his wife. Could
it be possible that Fanny Robarts, her own friend Fanny,
would be so untrue to her as to lend any assistance to such
a marriage as this ; as not to use all her power in preventing
it? She had spoken to Fanny on this very subject — not
fearing for her son, btt with a general idea of the impropriety
of intimacies between such girls as Lucy and such men as
Lord Lufton, and then Fanny had agreed with her. Could it
be possible that even she must be regarded as an enemy?
And then by degrees Lady Lufton began to reflect what steps
she had better take. In the first place, should she give in at
once, and consent to the marriage? The only thing quite
certain to her was this, that life would not be worth having if
she were forced into a permanent quarrel with her son. Such
an event would probably kill her. When she read of quarrels
in other noble families — and the accounts of such quarrels
will sometimes, unfortunately, force themselves upon the
attention of unwilling readers — she would hug herself, with
a spirit that was almost Pharisaical, reflecting that her destiny
was not like that of others. Such quarrels and hatreds
between fathers and daughters, and mothers and sons, were
Lady Lufton is Taken by Surprise 331
in her eyes disreputable to all the persons concerned. She
had lived happily with her husband, comfortably with her
neighbours, respectably with the world, and, above all things,
affectionately with her children. She spoke everywhere of
Lord Lufton as though he were nearly perfect — and in so
speaking, she had not belied her convictions. Under these
circumsta.xes, would not any marriage be better than a
quarrel? But then, again, how much of the pride of her
daily life would be destroyed by such a match as that ! And
might it not be within her power to prevent it without any
quarrel ? That her son would be sick of such a chit as Lucy
before he had been married to her six months — of that Lady
l.ufton entertained no doubt, and therefore her conscience
would not be disqui'^^ted in disturbing the consummation of
an arrangement so pernicious. It was evident that the matter
was not considered as settled even by her son ; and also
evident that he regarded the matter as being in some way
dependent on his mother’s consent. On the whole, might it
not be better for her — better for them all — that she should
think wholly of her duty, and not of the disagreeable results
to which that duty might possibly lead ? It could not be her
duty to accede to such an alliance, and therefore she would do
her best to prevent it. Such, at least, should be her attempt
in the first instance.
Having so decided, she next resolved on her course of
action. Immediately on her arrival a: Framley, she would
send for Lucy Robarts, and use all her eloquence — and per-
haps also a little of that stern dignity for which she was so
remarkable — in explaining to that young lady how very wicked
it was on her part to think of forcing herself into such a family
as that of the Luftons. She would eitplain to Lucy that no
happiness could come of it, that people placed by misfortune
above their sphere are always miserable ; and, in short, make
use of all those excellent moral lessons which are so customary
on such occasions. The morality might perhaps be thrown
away; but Lady Lufton depended much on hei dignified
sternness. And then, having so resolved, she prepared for her
journey home. Very little had been said at Framley Parsonage
ab'out Lord Lufton’s offer after the departure of that gentle-
man ; very little, at least, in Lucy’s presence. That the parson
and his wife should talk about it between themselves was a
matter of course; but very few words were spoken on the
matter either by or to Lucy. She was left to her own thoughts,
and possibly to her own hopes. And then other matters came
332 Framley Parsonage
Up at Framley which turned the current of interest into other
tracks. In the first place there was the visit made by Mr.
Sowerby to the Dragon of Wantly, and the consequent revela-
tion made by Mark Robarts to his wife. And wliile that latter
subject was yet new, before Fanny and Lucy had as yet made
up their minds as to all the little economics which might be prac-
tised in the household without serious detriment to the master^s
comfort, news reached them that Mrs. Crawley of Hjgglc stock
had been stricken with fever. Nothing of the kind could well
be more dreadful than this. To those who knew the family
it seemed impossible that their most ordinary wants could be
supplied if that courageous head were even for a day laid low j
and then the poverty of poor Mr. Crawley was such that the
sad necessities of a si^'k bed could hardly be supplied without
assistance. “ I will go over at once,” said Fanny.
“My dear!” said h.r husband, “it is typhus, and you must
first think of the children. I will go.”
“What on earth could >ou do, Mark?” said his wife.
“ Men on such occasions are almost worse than useless ; and
then they are so much more liable to infection.”
“ I have no children, nor am I a man,” said Lucy, smiling ;
“for both of which exemptions I am thankful. I will go, and
when I come back I will keep clear of the bairns.”
So it was settled, and Lucy started in the pony-carriage,
carrying with her such things from the parsonage storehouse
as were thought to be suitable to the wants of the sick lady at
Hogglestock. When she arrived there, she made her way into
the house, finding the door open, and not being able to obtain
the assistance of the scTvant girl in ushering her in. In thc^
parlour she found Grace Crawley, the eldest child, sitting
demurely in her mother’s chair nursing an infant. She, Grace
herself, was still a young child, but not the less, on this
occasion of well-understood sorrow, did she go through her
task, not only \rilh zeal but almost with solemnity. Her
bi other, a boy of six years old, was wuh her, and he had the
care of another baby. Tlicre they sat in a cluster, quiet, grave,
and silent, attending on themselves, because it had been willed
by fate that no one else should attend on them. “ How is
your mamma, dear Grace ? ” said Lucy, walking up to her, and
holding out her hand.
“ Poor mamma is very ill, indeed,” said Grace.
“ And' papa is very unhappy,” said Bobby, the boy.
“ I can’t get up because of baby.” said Grace ; “ but Bobby
can go and call papa out.”
Lady Lufton is Taken by Surprise 333
“ I will knock at the door,” said Lucy ; and so saying she
walked up to the bedroom door, and tapped against it lightly.
She repeated this for the third time before she was summoned
in by a low hoarse voice, and then on entering she saw Mr.
Crawley standing by the bedside with a book in his hand. He
looked at her uncomfortably, in a manner which seemed to
show that he was annoyed by this intrusion, and Lucy was
aware that she had disturbed him while at prayers by the
bedside of his wife. He came across the room, however, and
shook hands with her, and answered her inquiries in his
ordinary grave and solemn voice. “ Mrs. Crawley is very ill,”
he said — “very ill. God has stricken us heavily, but His will
be done. T3ut you had belter not go to her. Miss Robarts.
It is typhus.”
The caution, ho^^ev'-r, was too late; for Lucy was already
by the bedside, and had taken the hand of the sick woman,
which had been extended on the coverlid to gieet her. “Dear
Miss Robarts,” said a weak voice; “this is very good of you;
but it makes me unhappy to see you here.” Lucy lost no
time in taking sundry matters into her own hands, and ascer-
taining what was most wanted in that wretched household.
For it was wretched enough. Their orly servant, a girl of
sixteen, had been taken away by her nother as soon as it
became known that Mrs. Crawley was ill with fever. The
poor mother, to give her her due, had premised to come down
morning and evening herself, to do such work as might be
done in an hour or so ; but she could not, she said, leave her
child to catch the fever. And now, at the period of Lucy’s
visit, no step had been taken to procure a nurse, Mr. Crawley
having resolved to take upon himself the cuties of that position.
In his absolute ignorance of all sanalo-y measures, he had
thrown himself on his knees to pray ; and if prayers — true
prayers — might succour his poor wife, of such succour she
might be confident. Lucy, however, thought that oUicr aid
also was wanting to her. “ If you can do anything for us,”
said Mrs. Crawley, “let it be for the poor children.”
“I will have them all moved from this till you are better,"
said Lucy, boldly.
“ Moved I ” said Mr. Crawley, who even now — even in his
present strait — felt a repugnance to the idea that any one
should relieve him of any portion of his burden.
“Yes,” said Lucy; “I am sure it will be bener that you
should lose them for a week or two, till Mrs. Crc« k ley may be
able to leave her room.”
334 Framley Parsonage
“ But where are they to go ? ” said he, very gloomily. As to
this Lucy was not as yet able to say anything. Indeed when
she left Framley Parsonage there had been no time for dis-
cussion. She would go back and talk it all over with Fanny,
and find out in what way the children might be best put out
of danger. Why should they not all be harboured at the
parsonage, as soon as assurance could be felt that they were
not tainted with the poison of the fever ? An English lady of
the right sort will do all things but one for a sick neighbour ;
but for no neighbour will she wittingly admit contagious sick-
ness within the precincts of her own nursery. Lucy unloaded
her jellies and her febrifuges, Mr. Crawley frowning at her
bitterly the while. It had come to this with him, that food
had been brought into his house, as an act of charity, in his
very presence, and in his heart of hearts he disliked Lucy
Robarts in that she had brought it. He could not cause the
jars and the pots to be replaced in the pony-carriage, as he
would have done had the position of his wife been different.
In her state it would have been barbarous to refuse them, and
barbarous also to have created the fracas of a refusal; but
each parcel that was introduced was an additional weight laid
on the sore withers of his pride, till the total burden became
almost intolerable. All this his wdfe saw and recognized even
in her illness, and did make some slight ineffectual efforts to
give him ease ; but Lucy in her new power was ruthless, and
the chicken to make the chicken-broth was taken out of the
basket under his very nose. But Lucy did not remain long.
She had made up her mind what it behoved her to do herself,
and she was soon ready to return to Framley. “I shall be
back again, Mr. Crawley,” she said, “probably this evening,
and I shall stay with her till she is better.” “Nurses don’t
want rooms,” she went on to say, when Mr. Crawley muttered
something as to there being no bed-chamber. “ I shall make
up some sort of a litter near her ; you’ll see that I shall be
very snug.” And then she got into the pony-chaise, and drove
herself home.
CHAPTER XXXV
THE STORY OF KING COPHETUA
Lucy as she drove herself home had much as to which it
was necessary that she should arouse her thoughts. That she
would go back and nurse Mrs. Crawley through her fever she
was resolved. She was free agent enough to take so much on
The Story of King Cophetua 335
herself, and to feel sure that she could carry it through. But
how was she to redeem her promise about the children?
Twenty plans ran through her mind, as to farm-houses in
which they might be placed, or cottages which might be hired
for them ; but all these entailed the want of money ; and at
the present moment, were not all the inhabitants of the
parsonage pledged to a dire economy ? This use of the pony-
carriage would have been illicit under any circumstances less
pressing than the present, for it had been decided that the
carriage, and even poor Puck himself, should be sold. She
had, however, given her promise about the children, and
though her own stock of money was very low, that promise
should be redeemed.
When she reached the parsonage she was of course full of
her schemes, but she found that another subject of interest had
come up in her absence, which prevented her from obtaining
the undivided attention of her sister-in-law to her present
plans. Lady Lnfton had returned that day, and immediately
on her return had sent up a note addressed to Miss Lucy
Robarts, which note was in Fanny^s hards when Lucy stepped
out of the pony-carriage. The servant who brought it had
asked for an answer, and a verbal answer had been sent, saying
that Miss Robarts was away from home, and would herself
send a reply when she returned. It cannot be denied that the
colour came to Lucy^s face, and that her hand trembled when
she took the note from Fanny in the drawing-room. Every-
thing in the world to her might depend on what that note
contained ; and yet she did not open it at once, but stood with
it in her hand, and when Fanny pressed her on the subject,
still endeavoured to bring back the conversation to the subject
of Mrs. Crawley. But yet her mind was intent on the letter,
and she had already augured ill from the handwriting and even
from the words of the address. Had I^dy Lufton intended to
be propitious, she would have directed her letter to Miss
Robarts, without the Christian name ; so at least argued Lucy
— quite unconsciously, as one does argue in such matters.
One forms half the conclusions of one's life without any distinct
knowledge that the premises have even passed tlirough one's
mind. They were now alone together, as Mark was out
“ Won't you open her letter? " said Mrs. Robarts.
“ Yes, immediately ; but, Fanny, I must speak to you about
Mrs. Crawley first I must go back there this evening, and
stay there ; 1 have promised to do so, and shall certainly keep
my promise. 1 have promised also that the children shall be
336 Framley Parsonage
taken away, and we must arrange about that. It is dieadful,
the state she is in. There is no one to see to her but Mn.
Crawley, and the children are altogether left to themselves.*’
“ Do you mean that you are going back to stay ? ”
“ Yes, certainly ; I have made a distinct promise that I would
do so. And about the children ; could not you manage for
the children, Fanny — not perhaps in the house ; at least not at
first, perhaps?” And yet during all the time that she was
thus speaking and pleading for the Crawleys, she was endea-
vouring to imagine what might be the contents of that letter
which she held between her fingers.
“And is she so very ill? ” asked Mrs. Robarts.
“I cannot say how ill she may be, except this, that she
certainly has typhus fever. 'Fhey have had some doctor or
doctor’s assistant from Silverbridge ; but it seems to me that
they are greatly in want of better advice.”
“ But, Lucy, will you not read your letter ? It is astonishing
to me that you should be so indifferent a))out it.” Lucy was
anything but indifferent, and now did proceed to tear the
envelope. The note was very short, and ran in those words —
“ My dear Miss Robarts, — I am particularly anxious to see
you, and shall feel much obliged to you if you can siep over to
me here, at Framley Court. I must apologize for taking this
liberty with you, but you will probably feel that an interview
here would suit us both better than one at the parsonage.
“Truly yours,
“ M. Lufton.”
“There : I am in foi it now,” said Lucy, handing the note
over to Mrs. Robarts. “ I shall have to be talked to as never
poor girl was talked to before ; and when one thinks of what
I have done, it is hard.”
“ Yes ; and of what you have not done.”
“ Exactly ; and of what I have not done. But I suppose
I must go,” and she proceeded to re-lie the strings of her
bonnet, which she had loosened.
“ Do you mean that you are going over at once ? *’
“ Yes ; immediately. Why not ? It will be better to have
it over, and then I can go to the Crawleys. But, Fanny, the
pity of it is that I know it all as well as though it had been
already spoken ; and what good can there be in my having to
endure it ? Can’t you fancy the tone in which she will explain
to me the conventional inconveniences which arose when King
The Story of King Cophetua 337
Cophetiia would marry the beggar’s daughter? how she will
explain what Griselda went through; — not the arcbdtiacon’s
daughter, but the other Griselda ? ”
“ But it all came right with her.”
“ Yes ; but then I am not Griselda, and she will explain how
it would certainly all go wrong with rne. But what’s the good
when I know it all beforehand ? Have I not desired King
Cophetua to take himself and sceptre elsewhere ? ” And then
she started, having first said another word or two about the
Crawley children, and obtained a promise of I’uck and the
pony-carriage for the afternoon. It was also almost agreed that
Puck on his return to Franiluy should bring back the four
children with him ; but on this subject it was necessary that
Mark should be ccn rolled. 'I'he present scheme was to pre-
p>are for the.is a room ootside the house, once the dairy, at
present occupied by the groom and his wife; and to bring them
into the house as soon as it was manifest that there was no
danger from infection. But all this was to be matter for
deliberation. Fanny wanteii her to send over a note, m reply
to Lady Lufton’s, as harbinger of her coming; liiit Luej
marchci^ olf, hardly answ'ering this piopjsition.
“ What '3 the use of such a deal of ceremony ? ” she said.
1 know she’s at home ; and if she is not, I shall only lose ten
minutes in going.” And so she went, aid on reaching (he door
of Framley Court house found that her ladyship was at home.
Her heart almost came to her mouth as she was told so, and
then, in two niinules’ lime, she found herself in the little room
upstairs. In that little room we found ourselves once oclore —
you and I, O my reader ; — but Lucy had never beUM e visited
that hallowed precinct, ’’rhore was something in its air calcu-
lated to inspire awe in those who first ssw Lady Lufton sitting
bolt upright in the cane-boctorned arm-chair, which she always
occupied when at work at her books anl papers ; and this she
knew when she determined to receive Lucy in that apartment.
J^ut there was there another arm-chair, an easy, cozy chair,
which stood by the fireside ; and for .hose who liad caught
Lady Lufton napping in that chair of an afternoon, some of this
awe had perhaps been dissipated. “ Mss Robarts,” she said,
not rising from her chair, but holding out her hand to her
visitor, “ 1 am much obliged to you for having come over to
me here. You, no doubt, are aware of the subject on which
I wish to speak to you, and will agree with me that it is better
that we should meet here than over at the parsonage.” In
answer to which Lucy merely bowed her head, and took her
338 Framley Parsonage
seat on the chair which had been prepared for her. “ My son,**
continued her ladyship, **has spoken to me on the subject
of I think I understand. Miss Robarts, that there has
been no engagement between you and him ? ”
“None whatever,” said Lucy. “He made me an offer and
I refused him.”.^ This she said' very sharply ; — more so un-
doubtedly than the circumstances required; and with a
brusqueness that was injudicious as well as uncourteous. But
at the moment, she was thinking of her own position with
reference to Lady Lulton — ^not to Lord Lufton ; and of her
feelings with reference to the lady — not to the gentleman.
“ Oh,” said Lady Lufton, a little startled by the manner of
the communication. “ Then I am to understand that there is
nothing now going on between you and my son; that the
whole affair is over?”
“ That depends entirely upon you.”
“ On me ; does it ? ”
“ I do not know what your son may have told you, Lady
Lufton. For myself, I do not care to have any secrets from
you in this matter; and as he has spoken to you about it,
I suppose that such is his wish also. Am I right in presuming
that he has spoken to 70U on the subject ? ”
“ Yes, he has ; and it is for that reason that I have taken the
liberty of sending for )ou.”
“ And may I ask wf at he has told you ? I mean, of course,
as regards myself,” said Lucy. I.,ady Lufton, before she
answered this question, began to reflect that the young lady
was taking too much cf the initiative in this conversation, and
was, in fact, playing tlie game in her own fashion, which was
not at all in accordance with those motives which had induced
Lady Lufton to send Li her. “ He has told me that he made
you an offer of marriage,” replied Lady Lufton : “ a matter
which, of course, is very serious to me, as his mother; and
I have thought, therefore, that I had better see you, and appeal
to your own good sense and judgment and high feeling. Of
course you are aware ”
Now was coming the lecture to be illustrated by King
Cophetua and Griselda, as Lucy had suggested to Mrs.
Robarts ; but she succeeded in stopping it for awhile. “ And
did Lord Lufton tell you what was my answer ? ”
Not in words. But you yourself now say that you refused
him ; and I must express my admiration for your good ”
“ Wait half a moment, Lady Lufton. Your son did make
me an offer. He made it to me in person, up at the parsonage,
The Story of King Cophetua 339
gnd I then refused him ‘foolishly, as I now believe, for I
idearly love him. But I did so from a mixture of feelings
S hich I need not, perhaps, explain ; that most prominent, no
[)ubt, was a fear of your displeasure. And then he came
Igain, not to me, but to my brother, and urged his suit to him.
ifothing can have been kinder to me, more noble, more loving,
more generous, than his conduct. At first I thought, when he
was speaking to myself, that he was led on thoughtlessly to say
nil that he did say. I did not trust his love, though 1 saw that
he did trust it himself. But I could not but trust it when he
camd again — to my brother, and made his proposal to him. I
don’t know whether you will understand me. Lady Lufton ; but a
girl placed as I am feels ten times more assurance in such a tender
'“hf affection as that, t'^an in one made to herself, at the spur of
‘ithe moment, perhaps. And then you must remember that I —
;,I myself — I loved him from the first. I was foolish enough
f to think that I could know him and not love him.”
“ I saw all that going on,” said Lady Lufton, with a certain
assumption of wisdom about her; **and took steps which I
hoped would have put a stop to it in time.”
“ Everybody saw it. It was a matter of course,” said Lucy,
destroying her ladyship’s wisdom at a blow. “ Well ; I did
learn to love him, not meaning to do so ; and I do love him
with all my heart. It is no use my strmng to think that I do
not ; and I could stand with him at the altar to-morrow and
give him my hand, feeling that 1 was doing my duty by him, as
a woman should do. And now he has told you of his love,
and 1 believe in that as I do in my own ” And then for a
moment she paused.
“But, my dear Miss Robarts ” began Lady Lufton.
Lucy, however, had now worked herself up into a condition of
power, and w’ould not allow her ladyship to interrupt her in her
speech. “ I beg your pardon, Lady Lufton ; I shall have done
directly, and then I will hear you. And so my brother came
to me, not urging this suit, expressing no wish for such a
marriage, but allowing me to judge for myself, and proposing
that I should see your son again on tie following morning.
Had I done so, I could not but have accepted him. Think
of it. Lady l-.ufton. How could I have done other than
accept him, seeing that in my heart 1 had accepted his love
already ? ”
“ Well ? ” said Lady Lufton, not wishing now :o put in any
speech of her own.
“ I did not see him — I refused to do so — because I was a
340 Framley Parsonage
coward. I could not endure to come into this house as you
son*s wife, and be coldly looked on by your son*s mother
Much as I loved him, much as I do love him, dearly as I priz
the generous offer which he came down here to repeat to me,
could not live with him to be made the object of your scorr
I sent him word, therefore, that I would have him when yo^
would ask me, and not before.” And, then, having thu^
pleaded her cause — and pleaded, as she believed, the cause o*
her lover also — she ceased from speaking, and prepared herselj
to listen to the story of King Cophetua. But Lady Lufton fel
considerable difficulty in commencing her speech. In the firs^
place she was by no means a hard-hearted or a selfish woman *
and were it not that her own son was concerned, and all the
glory which was reflected upon her from her son, her syrdj
pathies w^ould have bt^en given to Lucy Robarts. As it wadj*
she did sympathize witli her, and admire her, and to a certain
extent like her. She liegan also to understand what it was that
had brought about her son’s love, and to feel that but foj
certain unfortunate concomitant circumstances the girl before
her miglit have made a fitting Latly Lufton. Lucy had grown
bigger in her eyes while sitting there and talking, and had lost
much of that rnissish want of importance — that lack of social
weight — which Lady Lufton in her own opinion had always
irnputeji to her. A girl that could thus speak up and explain
her own position now, would be able to speak up and explain
her own, and perhaps some other positions at any future time.
But not for all or any of these reasons did Lady Lulton think
of giving way. The power of making or marring this marriage
was placed in her hands, as was very fitting, and that power it
behoved her to use, as best she might use it, to her son’s
advantage. Much as she might admire Lucy, she could not
sacrifice her son to :hat admiration. The unfortunate con-
comitant circumstances still remained, and were of sufficient
force, as she thought, to make such a marriage inexpedient.
Lucy was the sister of a gentleman who by his peculiar position
as parish clergyman of P'ramley w^as unfitted to be the brother-
in-law of the owner of Framley. Nobody liked clergymen
better than Lidy Lufton or was more willing to live with their
on terms of affectionate intimacy, but she could not get over
the feeling that the clergyman of her own parish,— or of he!*'
son’s, — was a part of her own establishment, of her owr
appan’^ge,— or of his, — and that it could not be well tha*-
Ix)rd Lulton should marry among his own dependants. I.ady
Lufton would not have used the word, but she did think it.
The Story of King Cophetua 341
-And then, too, Lucy’s education had been so deficient. She
S^iad had no one about her in early life accustomed to the ways
of what shall I say without making l-^dy Lufton
^nppear more worldly than she was? Lucy’s wants in this
*</espect, not to be defined in words, had been exemplified by
^9 he very way in which she had just now stated her case. She
'had shown talent, good temper, and sound judgment; but
^ there had been no quiet, no repose about her. The species
^of power in young ladies which Lady Lufton most admired Avas
vis inertia belonging to beautiful and dignified reticence;
^of this poor Lucy had none. Then, too, she had no fortune,
^ which, though a minor evil, was an evil; and she had no birth,
•^in the high-life sense of the word, wtich was a greater evil.
'^And then, thougii ner eyes had sparkled when she confessed
her love. Lady Lufton was not prepared to admit that she was
possessed of positive beauty. Such were the unfortunate con-
comitant circumstances which still induced Lady Lufton to
resolve that the match must be marred.
But the performance of her part in this play was much more
difficult than she had imagined, and she found herself oi)liged
to sit silent for a minute or two, during which, ho\sevor, Miss
Robarts made no attempt at further sjeech. “ I am greatly
struck,” Lady Lufton said at last, “ by the excellent sense you
have displayed in the whole of this affair ; and you must allow
me to say, Miss Roljarts, that 1 now regard you with very
different feelings from those which I eitertained when I left
London.” Upon this Lucy bowed her head, slightly but very
stiffly ; acknowledging rather the former censure implied than
the present eulogium expressed.
“But my feelings,” continued Lady Lufton, "my strongest
feelings in this matter, must be those of a motlicr. What
might be my conduct if such a marriage did take place, 1 need
not now consider. But I must confess that I should think
such a marriage very — very ill-judged. A better-hearted young
man than Lord Lufton does not exist, nor one v/ith better
principles, or a deeper regard for his word ; but ho is exactly
the man to be mistaken in any hurried outlook as to iiis future
lU'e. Were you and he to become man and wife, such a
marriage would tend to the hapf)iness neither ot him nor of
you.” It was clear that the whole lecture was now coming;
and as Lucy had o[)enly declared her own weakness, and
throwm all the power of decision into the hands of Lady Lufton,
she did not see why she should endure this.
“ We need not argue about that, Lady Lufton,” she said.
342 Framley Parsonage
** I have told you the only circumstances under which 1 woulifj
marry your son ; and you, at any rate, are safe.”
‘'No ; 1 was not wishing to argue,” answered Lady Luftoid
almost humbly; “but I was desirous of excusing myself M
you, so that you should not think me cruel in withholding m^
consent. I wished to make you believe that I was doing thi^^
best for my son.”
“ I am sure that you think you are, and therefore no excuse;
is necessary.”
“ No, exactly ; of course it is a matter of opinion, and I dti>'
think so. I cannot believe that this marriage would make*
either of you happy, and therefore I should be very wrong to
express my consent.”
“ Then, Lady Lufton,” said Lucy, rising from her chair, “ %
suppose we have both now said what is necessary, and 1 will
therefore wish you gocd-bye.”
“Good-bye, Miss jiobarts. I wish I could make you
understand how very highly I regard your conduct in this
matter. It has been above all praise, and so I shall not
hesitate to say when speaking of it to your relatives.” This
was disagreeable enough to Lucy, who cared but little for any
praise which Lady Lufton might express to her relatives in this
matter. “ And pray,” continued Lady Lufton, “ give my best
love to' Mrs. Robarts, and tell her that I shall hope to see her
over here very soon, and Mr. Robarts also. I would name a
day for you all to dhe ; but perhaps it will be better that I
should have a little tak with Fanny first.”
Lucy muttered something, which was intended to signify
that any such dinner-party had better not be made up with the
intention of including her, and then took her leave. She had
decidedly had the best of the interview, and there was a con-
sciousness of this in her heart as she allowed Lady Lufton to
shake hands with her. She had stopped her antagonist short
on each occasion on which an attempt had been made to
produce the homily which had been prepared, and during the
interview had spoken probably three words for every one which
her lady ship had been able to utter. But, nevertheless, there
was a bitter feeling of disappointment about her heart as she
walked back home ; and a feeling, also, that she herself had
caused her own unhappiness. Why should she have been so
romantic and chivalrous and self-sacrificing, seeing that her
romance and chivalry had all been to his detriment as well as
to hers, — seeing that she sacrificed him as well as herself?
Why should she have been so anxious to play into Lady
The Stoiy of King Cophetua 343
-Lufton’s hands ? It was not because she thought it right, as a
^general social rule, that a lady should refuse a gentleman’s
hand, unless the gentleman’s mother were a consenting party to
the marriage. She would have held any such doctrine as
absurd. The lady, she would have said, would have had to
look to her own family and no further. It was not virtue but
cowardice which had influenced her, and she had none of that
solace which may come to us in misfortune from a conscious-
ness that our own conduct has been blameless. Lady Lufton
had inspired her with awe, and any sucb feeling on her part
was mean, ignoble, and unbecoming the spirit with which she
wished to think that she was endowed. That was the accusa-
tion which she brought against herself, and it forbade her to
feel any triumph r.s to the result of her interview. When she
reached the parsonage, Mark was there, and they were of course
expecting her. “ Well,” said she, in her short, hurried manner,
“ is Puck ready again ? I have no time to lose, and I must
go and pack up a few things. Have you settled about the
children, Fanny ? ”
** Yes ; I will tell you directly ; but you have seen Lady
Lufton ?
‘‘ Seen her ! Oh, yes, of course I have seen her. Did she
not send for me ? and in that case it was 3iot on the cards that
I should disobey her.” I
“ And w'hat did she say ? ”
“How green you are, Mark; and tot only green, but
impolite also, to make me repeat the story of my own disgrace.
Of course she told me that she did not htend that I should
marry my lord, her son ; and of course I said that under those
circumstances I should not think of doing such a thing.”
“ Lucy, 1 cannot understand you,” said Fanny, very gravely.
“ I am sometimes inclined to doubt whether you have any
deep feeling in the matter or not. If you have, how can you
bring yourself to joke about it ? ”
“ Well, it is singular ; and sometimes I doubt myself whether
I have. I ought to be pale, ought I not ? and very thin, and
to go mad by degrees ? I have not the least intention of
doing anything of the kind, and, therefore, the m.ntter is not
worth any further notice.”
“ But was she civil to you, Lucy ? ” asked Mark : “ civil in
ter manner, you know ? ” v
“Oh, uncommonly so. You will hardly believe it, but she
'ttualjy asked me to dine. She always does, you know, when
\e wants to show her good humour. If you’d oroken youi
M ***
344 Framley Parsonage
leg, and she wished to commiserate you, she’d ask you to
dinner.”
“ I suppose she meant to be kind,” said Fanny, who was not
disposed to give up her old friend, though she was quite ready
to fight Lucy’s battles, if there were any occasion for a battle
to be fought.
“ Lucy is so perverse,” said Mark, “ that it is impossible to
learn from her what leally has taken place.”
“Upon my word, then, you know it all as well as 1 can tell
you. She asked me if Lord Lufton had made me an offer. I
said, yes. She asked next, if I meant to accept it. Not
without her approval, 1 said. And then she asked us all to
dinner. That is exactly what took place, and I cannot see
that I have been perverse at all.” After that she threw herself
into a chair, and Mark and Fanny stood looking at each other.
“ Mark,” she said, after a while, “ don’t be unkind to me.
I make as little of it as I can, for all our sakes. It is better
so, Fanny, than that I should go about moaning, like a sick
cow 3 ” and then they looked at her, and saw that the tears
were already brimming over from her eyes.
“I^earest, dearest Lucy,” said Fanny, immediately going
down on her knees before her, “ I won’t be unkind to you
again.” And then they had a great cry together.
CHAPTER XXXVI
KIDNAPPING AT HOGGLKSTOCK
The great cry, however, did not take long, and Lucy was
soon in the pony-carriage again. On this occasion her bresther
volunteered to drive her, and it was now understood that he
was to bring back with him all the Crawley children. The
whole thing had been arranged ; the groom and his wife were
to be taken into the house, and the big bedroom across the
yard, usually occupied by them, was to be converted into a
quarantine hospital until such time as it might be safe to pull!
down the yellow flag. They were about half w^ay on their roa«
to Hcgglestock when they were overtaken by a man on horsey
back, whom, when he came up beside them, Mr. RobartI
recognized as Dr. Arabin, Dean of Barchester, and head of ibf
chapter to which he himself belonged. It immediate/
appeared that the dean also wq,s going to Hogglefjtock, having
heard of the misfoitune that had befallen his friends there ; he
had, he said, started as soon as the news reached him, in order
Kidnapping at Ho^^estock 345
that he might ascertain how best he niiitit render assistance.
To effect this he had undertaken a ri(&1of nearly forty miles,
and explained that he did not expe^Ko reach home again
much t)tfore midnight. “You pass {by Framley?” said
Ro harts.
“ Yes, I do,” said the dean.
“Then of course you will dine withlus as you go home,
you and your horse also, which will be quite as important.”
This having been duly settled, and thci proper ceremony of
introdiirtion having taken place betweeri the dean and Lucy,
they proceeded to discuss the character A* Mr. Crawley.
“ I have known him all my life,” sajd the dean, “ having
been at school and college with him, an(J for years since that I
v.as on terms of the closest intimacy witH him ; but in spite of
that, I do not kno / now to help him in His need. A prouder-
hr.irted man 1 never met, or one less} willing to share his
sorrows with his friends.”
“ I have often heard him speak of you,f' said Maik.
“ One of the bitterest feelings I have is that a man so dear
me should live so near to me, and thatll should sec so little
of him. But what can I do? He will nojlrcome to my house ;
and when I go to his he is angry with because I wear a
shot el hat and ride on horseback.”
“ I should leave my hat and my horse IPiie borders of the
last parish,” said Lucy, timidly. W"
“ Well ; yes, certainly ; one ought not fO give offence even
in such matters as th.u ; but my coat and waistcoat would then
be equally objectionable. I have ’changed, — in (outward
matters I mean, — and he has not. Th^t irritates him, and
unless I could be what I was in the old days, he will not look
at me with the same eyes ; ” and then he J-ode on, in order, as
he said, that the first pang of the interview might be over
before Robaris and his sister came up^in the scene. Mr,
Crawley was standing before his door, leaning over the little
wooden railing, when the dean trotted up on his hcise. He
had come out after hours of close watching to get a few' mouth-
fuls of the sweet summer air, and as he stood there he held
the youngest of his children in his aims. The poo- little baby
sat . there, quiet indeeil, hut hardly happy. This father,
though he loved his ofI‘‘piing with an affecrion a* intense as
that which human nature can supply, was not gitied with the
knack of rii.i‘;mg diildien fond cif him; for it is hardly more
ihan a knack, that aptitude which some men have of gaininp
ihe g-'od graces of the young. Such men are not always the
Kidnapping at Hogglestock 347
** I do not know how thut may be; 1 have not yet made up
my mind.”
“ But, my dear Crawley ■ ”
** Providence does not admit of such removals in all cases,”
said he. ** Among the poorer classes the children must
endure such perils.”
In many cases it is so,” said the dean, by no means
inclined to make an argument of it att the present moment ;
“ but in this case they need not. You must allow me to make
arrangements for sending for them, as of course your time is
occupied here.” Miss Robarts, though she had mentioned her
intention of staying with Mrs. Crawley, had said nothing of
the Framley plan with reference to the o|iildren.
“ What you mean is that you intend to take the burden off
my shoulders — iji faet, pay for them. ’ I cannot allow that,
Arahin. They must take the lot of jlieir father and their
mother, as it is proper that they should flo.” Again the dean
had no inclination for arguing, and thought it might be well to
let the question of the children drop for i little while.
“ And is there no nurse with her ? ” sad he.
“ No, no ; I am seeing to her myself it the present moment.
A woman will be here just now.”
“ What woman ? ”
“ Well ; her name is Mrs. Stubbs ; she Xj^in the parish. She
will put the younger children to bed, an :-^nd but it's no
use troubling you with all that Therein is a young lady talked
of coming, but no doubt she has foun<^| too inconvenient. It
will be better as it is.”
“You mean Miss Robarts; ihe IHJ be here directly; I
passed her as 1 came here ; ” and as Dr.| Arabin was yet speak-
ing, the noise of the carriage wheels was heard upon the road.
“ I will go in now,” said Mr. Crawley,' “ and see if she still
sleeps ; ” and then he entered the house, leaving the dean at
the door, still seated upon his horse. “ He will be afraid of
the infection, and 1 will not ask him to come in," said Mr.
Crawley to himself.
“ I shall seem to be prying into his poverty, if I enter
unasked,” said the dean to himself. And so he re/nained there
till Puck, now acquainted with the locality, supped at the
door.
“ Have you not been in ? ” said Robarts.
“ No ; Crawley has been at the door talking U me ; he will
be here directly, 1 suppose ; ” and thee Mark Robarts also
prepared himself to wait till the master of the house should
348 Framley Parsonage
reappear. But Lucy had no such punctilious misgivings ; she
did not much care now whether she offended Mr. Crawley or
no. Her idea was to place herself by the sick woman’s bed-
side, and to send the four children away ; — with their father’s
consent if it might be ; but certainly without it if that consent
were withheld. So she got down from the carriage, and taking
certain packages in her hand made her way direct into the
house.
“There’s a big bundle under the seat, Mark,” she said;
“ ril come and fetch it directly, if you’ll diag it out.” For
some five minutes the two dignitaries of the Church remained
at the door, one on his cob and the other in his low carriage,
saying a few words to each other and waiting till some one
should again appear from the house. “ It is all armiiged,
indeed it is,” were the first words wiiich reached their ears, and
these came from Lucy. “ There will be no trouble at all, and
HO expense, and they shall all come back as soon as Mrs.
Crawley is able to get out of bed.”
“But, Miss Robarts, I can assure ” Tliat was Mr.
Crawley’s voice, heard from him as he followed Miss Robarts
to the door ; but one of the elder children had then called him
into the sick room, and Lucy was left to do her worst.
“Are you going to take the children back vfith you?” said
the d^an.
“ Yes ; Mrs. Robarts has prepared for them.”
“ You can take greater liberties v;ith my friend here than
1 can.”
“It is all my sister’s doing,” said Robarts. “Women ^jrc
always bolder in such matters than men.” And then Lucy
reappeared, bringing Jiohby with her, and one of the younger
children.
“ Do not iiiuid what he says,” said she, “ but drive away
when you have got them all. Tell Fanny I have put into the
basket what things I could find, but they are very few. She
must borrow things ^'or Grace from Mrs. Gnoiger’s little girl ”
— (Mrs. Granger \va.s the wife of a Framley farmer) ; — “ and,
Mark, turn Puck’s head round, so that you may be off in a
moment. I’ll have Grace and the other one here directly.”
And then, leaving her brother to pack Bobby and his little
sister on the back part of the vehicle, she returned to her
business in the house. She had just looked in at Mrs
Crawlers bed, and finding her aw^ake, had smiled on her, and
deposited her bundle in token of her intended stay, and then,
without speaking a word, had gone on her errand about
Kidnapping at Hogglestock 349
the children. She had called to Grace to show her where she
might find such things as were to be taken to Framlc-y, and
having explained to the bairns, as well as she might, the
destiny wfiich immediately awaited them, prepared them for
their departure without saying a word to Mr. Crawley on the
subject. Bobby and the elder of the iw^o infants were stowed
away safety in the back part of the carnage, where tliey allowed
themselves to be placed without saying a word. They opened
their eyes and stared at the dean, who sat by on his horse, and
assented to such orders as Mr. Robarts gave them, — no doubt
with much surprise, but nevertheless in absolute silence.
“Now, Glare, be qui^ k, there’s a dear,” said Lucy, leturning
with the infant in her arms. “And, Grace, mind you are very
cneful about baby: and bring the basiet; Til give it you
w hen you are in.' Grrce and the other child were then packed
on to the othei seat, and a 'oasket with children’s clothes put in
on the top of them. “ That’ll do, Mark ; good-Iiye ; tell Fanny
to be sure and send the day after to-morrow, and not to
forget ” and then she whispered into her brother’s ear an
injunction about ceitain dairy comforts which might not be
spoken of in the hearing of Mr. Craw^ley. “ Good-bye, dears ]
mind you are good children ; you shall hear about mamma the
day after to-morrow,” said Lucy ; and Puck, admonished by
a s(/und from his master's voice, began :o move just as Mr.
Crawley reappeared at the house door.
“ Oh, oh, stop ! ” he said. “ Miss Robarts, you really had
better not ”
“ Go on, Mark,” said Lucy, in a whisper, which, whether
audible or not by Mr. Crawley, was heard very plainly by the
dean. And Mark, who had slightly arrested Puck by the reins
on the appearance of Mr. Crawley, now touched the impatient
little beast with his whip ; and the vehicle with its freight
darted off rapidly, Puck shaking his head and going away with
a tremendously quick short trot, which soon separated Mr.
Crawley from his family.
“Miss Robarts,” he began, “this step has been taken
altogether without ”
“Yes,” said she, interrupting him. “My brother was
obliged to return at once. The children, you know, will
remain altogether at the parsonage ; and that, I tiink, is what
Mrs. Crawley will best like. In a day pr two tliey will be
under Mrs. Robarts’ own charge.” i
“ But, my dear Miss Robarts, 1 had no intentim whatever of
putting the burden of my family on the sjhould rs of another
350 Framley Parsonage
person. They must return to their own home immediately—
that is, as soon as they cay be brought back.”
** I really think Mbs Robarts has managed very well,” said
the dean. Mrs. Crawley must be so much more comfortable
to think that they are out of danger.”
“And they will be quite comfortable at the parsonage,”
said Lucy.
“ 1 do not at all doubt that,” said Mr. Crawley ; " but too
much of such comforts will unfit them for their home ; and —
and I could have wished that I had been consulted more at
leisure before the proceeding had been taken.”
“It was arranged, Mr. Crawley, when I was here before,
that the children had better go away,” pleaded Lucy.
“I do not remember agreeing to such a measure. Miss
Robarts ; however I suppose they cannot be had back
to-night ? ”
“ No, not to-night,” said Lucy. “ And now I will go in to
your wife.” And then she returned to the house, leaving the
two gentlemen at the door. At this moment a labourer's boy
came sauntering by, and the dean, obtaining possession of his
services for the custody of his horse, was able to dismount and
put himself on a more equal footing for conversation with his
friend.
“ Crawley,” said he, putting his hand affectionately on his
friend^s shoulder, as they both stood leaning on the little rail
before the door ; “ that is a good girl — a very good girl.”
“ Yes,” said he slowly ; “ she means well.”
“ Nay, but she does well ; she does excellently. What can
be better than her conduct now ? While I was mudilating how
I might possibly assist your wife in this strait ”
“ I want no assistance ; none, at least, from man,” said
Crawley, bitterly.
“ Oh, my friend, think of what you are saying ! Think of
the wickedness which must accompany such a state of mind !
Have you ever kno^^rn any man able to walk alone, without
assistance from his brother men?” Mr. Crawley did not
make any immediate answer, but putting his arms behind his
back and closing hiss hands, as was his wont when he walked
alone thinking of the general bitterness of his lot in life, began
to move slowly along the road in front of his house. He did
not invite the other to walk with him, but neither was there
anything in hil mannfer which seemed to indicate that he had
intended to b) left Ito himself. It was a beautiful summer
afternoon, at that defdcious period of the year when summer
Kidnapping at Hogglestock 351
has just burst forth from the growth of spring ; when the
summer is yet but three days old, and all the various shades
of green which nature can put forth are still in their unsoiled
purity of freshness. The apple blossoms were on the trees,
and the hedges were sweet with may. The cuckoo at five
o’clock was still sounding his soft summer call with unabated
energy, 'nd even the common grasses of the hedgerows were
sweet with the fragrance of their new growth. The foliage of
the oaks was complete, so that every bough and twig was
clothed ; but the leaves did not yet hang heavy in masses, and
the bend of every bough and the tapering curve of every twig
were visible through their light green covering. There is no
time of the year equal in beauty to the first week in summer ;
and no colour which nature gives, not even the gorgeous hues
of autumn, which can equal the verdure produced by the first
warm suns of May.
Hogglestock, as has been explained, has little to offer in the
way of landskip beauty, and the clergyman’s house at
Hogglestock was not placed on a green slopy bank of land,
retired from the road, with its windows opening on to a lawn,
surrounded by shrubs, with a view of the small church tower
seen through them ; it had none of thit beauty which is so
common to the cozy houses of our spiritual pastors in the agri-
cultural parts of England. Hogglestock Parsonage stood
bleak beside the road, with no pretty paling lined inside by
hollies and laburnum, Portugal laurels and rose-trees. But,
nevertheless, even Hogglestock was pretty now. There were
apple-trees there covered with blossom, and the hedgerows
were in full flower. There were thrushes singing, and here and
there an oak-tree stood in the roadside, perfect in its solitary
beauty.
“ I^t us walk on a little,” said the dean. “ Miss Robarts is
with her now, and you will be better for leaving the room for a
few minutes.”
“ No,” said he ; “ I must go back ; I cannot leave that young
lady to do my work.”
“ Stop, Crawley ! ” And the dean, putting his hand upon
him, stayed him in the road. “ She is doing her own work,
and if you were speaking of her with reference to any other
household than your own, you would say so. Is it not a
comfort to you to know that your wife has a weman near her
at such a time as this ; and a woman, too, whe can speak to
her as one lady does to another ? ”
“These are comforts which we have no dght to expect.
352 Framley Parsonage
I could not have done much for poor Mary ; but what a man
could have done should not have been wanting.**
“ I am sure of it ; I know it well. What any man could do
by himself you would do — excepting one thing.** And the dean
as he spoke looked full into the other*s face.
“ And what is there I would not do ? ** said Crawley.
“ Sacrifice your own pride.**
“My pride?**
“ Yes ; your own pride.**
“ I have had but little pride this many a day. Arabin, you
do not know what my life has been. How is a man to be
proud who ** And then he stopped himself, not wishing
to go through the catalogue of those grievances, which, as he
thought, had killed the very germs of pride within him, or to
insist by spoken words on his poverty, his wants, and the
injustice of his position. “ No ; I wish I could be proud ; but
the world has been toe heavy for me, and I have forgotten ail
th.at.’’
“ How long have I known you, Crawley? *’
“ How long ? Ah dear ! a lifetime nearly, now.**
“ And we were like brothers once.**
“ Yes ; we were equal as brothers then — in our fortunes, our
tastes, and our modes 3f life.**
“And yet you would begrudge me the pleasure of putting
my hand in my pocket, and relieving the inconveniences which
have been thrown on you, and those you love belter than
yourself, by the chances of your fate in life.**
“I will live on no man's charity,** said Crawley, with an
abruptness which amounted almost to an expression of anger.
" And is not that p-ide ? **
“ No — yes ; — it is a species of pride, but not that pride of
ivhich you spoke. A man cannot be honest if he have not
some pride. You yourself ; — would you not rather starve than
become a begg.T.r ? **
“ I would rather beg than see my wife starve,’* said Arabin.
Crawley when he heard these words turned sharply round,
and stood with his back to the dean, with his hands still behind
him, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground.
“ But in this case there is no question of begging,” continued
the dean. “I, out of those superfluities which it has pleased
God to put at niy disposal, am anxious to assist the needs of
those whom I love.**
“ She is not starving,’* said Crawley, in a voice very bitter, but
still intended to be exculpatory of himself.
Kidnapping at Ilogglestock 353
“ No, my dear friend ; I know she is not, and do not you be
angry with me because I have endeavoured to put the matter
to you in the strongest language I could use.”
“You look at it, Arabin, from one side only; I can only
look at it from the other. It is very sweet to give ; 1 do not
doubt that. But the taking of what is given is vf-ry bitter.
Gift br«.ad chokes in a inan’s throat and poisons his blood,
and sits like lead upon the heart. You have never tried it.”
“ But that is the very fault for which I blame you. That is
the pride which I say you ought to sacrilice.”
“ And why should I be called on to do so ? Is not the
lahouier worthy of his hire? Am I not able to work, and
willing ? Have I not always had my shoulder to the collar,
and is it right tho^^ X sliould now be contented with the scraii?
from a rich -inan’s k.'eh n? Aratiin, }ou and I were equal
once and we vfcre then Iriends, understanding each other’s
thoughts and sympathizing with each o hcr’s sorrows. But it
cannot be so now'.”
“ It there be such inabsli y, it is all with you.”
“It is all w'ith me, — because, in our connection the pain
would all be on mv side. It would not hurt you to see me at your
t.ible with worn shoes and a ragged shirt. Ido not think so
meanly you as that. You would give me your feast to eat
though I were not clad a tithe as well as the menial behind
your Ciiair. But it would hurt me to know that there were
those looking at me who thought me unfit to sit in your
rooms.”
“ That is the pride of which I speak false pride.”
“ Call it so if you will ; but, Arabin, lo preaching of yours
can alter it. It is all that is left to me of my manliness. That
pour broken reed who is lying there sick — who has sacrificed
all the world to her love for me, — who is the mother of my
children, and the partner of my sorrows and the wife ot ni>
bosom, — even she cannot change me in tiis, though she pleads
w'ith tlie eloquence of all her wants. Nh even for her can I
liold out my hand for a dole.” They had now co’ne hack to
the door of the house, and Mr. Crawlej, hardly conscious of
what he was doing, was preparing to enter.
' “ Will Mrs. Crawley be able to see me if I erme in ? ” said
the dean.
“ Oh, stop ; no ; you had better not do so,” sad Mr. Craw'icy.
“You, no doubt, might be subject to infection and then Mrs.
Arabin would be frightened.”
“ 1 do not care about it in the least,” said thi dean.
354 Framley Parsonage
“ But it is of no use ; you had better not. Her room, 1
fear, is quite unfit for you to see ; and the whole house, you
know, may be infected.” Dr. Arabin by this time was in the
sitting-room ; but seeing that his friend was really anxious that
he should not go farther, he did not persist.
It will be a comfort to us, at any rate, to know that Miss
Robarts is with her.”
“The young lady is very good — very good indeed,” said
Crawley ; “ but I trust she will return to her home to-morrow.
It is impossible that she should remain in so poor a house as
mine. There will be nothing here of all the things that she
will want.” The dean thought that Lucy Robarts' wants
during her present occupation of nursing would not be so
numerous as to make her continued sojourn in Mrs. Craw-
ley's sick room impossible, and therefore took his leave
with a satisfied conviction that the poor lady would not be
left wholly to the somewhat unskilful nursing of her husband.
CHAPTER XXXVII
MR. SOVERBY WITHOUT COMPANY
And now there were going to be wondrous doings in West
Barsetshire, and men's minds were much disturbed. The fiat
had gone forth from the high places, and the Queen had
dissolved her faithful Commons. The giants, finding that they
could effect little or nothing with the old House, had resolved
to try what a new venture would do for them, and the hubbub
of a general election was to pervade the country. This pro-
duced no inconsiderable irritation and annoyance, for the
House was not as ye: quite three years old ; and members of
parliament, though they naturally feel a constitutional pleasure
in meeting their friends and in pressing the hands of their
constituents, are, nevertheless, so far akin to the lower order
of humanity that they appreciate the danger of losing their
seats; and the certainty of a considerable outlay in their
endeavours to retain them is not agreeable to the legislative
mind. Never did the old family fury between the gods and
giants rage higher than at the present moment. ( The giants
declared that every turn which they attempted to take in their
country’s service had been thwarted by faction, in spite of
those benign promises of assistance made to them only a few
weeks since by their opponents ; and the gods answered by
asserting that tliey were driven to this opposition by the
Mr, Sowerby without Company 355
Boeotian fatuity of the giants. They had no doubt promised
their aid, and were ready to give it to measures that were
decently prudent ; but not to a bill enabling government at its
will to pension aged bishops ! No ; there must be some limit
to their tolerance, and when such attempts as these were made
that limit had been clearly passed. All this bad taken place
openly i. nly a day or two after that casual whisper dropped
by Tom Towers at Miss Dunstable^s paity — by Tom Towers,
that most pleasant of all pleasant fellows. And how should
he have known it, — he who flutters from one sweetest flower
of the garden to another.
Adding sugar to the pink, and honey to the rose,
So loved for what he gives, but taking nDthing as he goes?*’
But the whisper had grown into a rumour, and the rumour
into a fact, and the political world was in a ferment. The
giants, furious about their bishops* pension bill, threatened the
House — most injudiciously; and then it was beautiful to see
how indignant members got up, glowing with honesty, and
declared that it was base to conceive that any gentleman in that
House could be actuated in his vote by any hopes or fears
with reference to his seat. And so maters grew from bad to
worse, and these contending parties never hit at each other
with such envenomed wrath as they did low ; — having entered
the ring together so lately with such nanifold promises of
good-will, respect, and forbearance I
But going from the general to the particular, we may say
that nowhere was a deeper consternation spread than in the
electoral division of West Barsetshire. No sooner had the
tidings of the dissolution reached the county than it was
known that the duke intended to change his nominee. Mr.
Sowerby had now sat for the division slice the Reform Bill !
He had become one of the county institutions, and by the
dint of custom and long establishment lad been borne with
and even liked by the county gentlenen, in spite of his
well-known pecuniary irregularities. Nav all this was to be
changed. No reason had as yet been pui)licly given, but it
was understood that Lord Dumbello \as to be returned,
jflthough he did not own an acre of land in the county. It ii
true that rumour went on to say that Lord l>umbello was
about to form close connections with Baisetshir:. He was on
the eve of marrying a young lady, from the other division
indeed, and was now engaged, so it was said m completing
arrangements with the government for the pirchase of that
356 Framley Parsonage
noble crown property usually known as the Chace of Chaldi-
cotes. It was also stated — this statement, however, had
hitherto been only announced in confidential whispers — that
Chaldicotcs House itself would soon become the residence of
the marquis. The duke was claiming it as his own — would
very shortly have completed his claims and taken possession *
— and then, by some arrangement between them, it was to be
made over to Lord Dumbello. But very contrary ru^nours to
these got abroad alsc. Men said — such as dared to oppose
the duke, and some few also who did not dare to oppose him
•when the day of battle came — that it was beyond his graced
power to turn Lord Dumbello into a Barsetshire magnate.
The crown property— such men said — was to fall into the
hands of young Mr. Gresham, of Boxall Hill, in the other
division, and that the terms of purchase had been already
settled. And as to Mr. Sowerby’s property and the house of
Chaldicotes — these opponents of the Omnium interest went
on to explain — it was by no means as yet so certain that the
duke would be able to enter it and take possession. The
place was not to be j;iven up to him quietly. A great fight
would be made, and i: was beginning to be believed that the
enormous mortgages vould be paid off by a lady of immense
wealth. And then a dash of romance was not wanting to
make these stories prlatable. This lady of immense wealth
had been courted by Mr. bowerby, had acknowledged her
love, — but had refused to marry him on account of his
chararici. In testinDny of her love, however, she was about
to pay all his debts.
It was soon put leyond a rumour, and became manifest
enough, that Mr. Sowerby did not intend to retire from the
county in obedience to the duke^s behests. A placard was
posted through the whole division in which no allusion was
made by name to the duke, but in which Mr. Sowerby warned
his friends not to be ltd away by any report that he intended
to retire froru the representation of West Barsetshire. “ He
had sat,” the placard said, “for the same county during the
full period of a quarter of a century, and he would not lightly
give up an honour tiat had been extended to him so often
and which he prized io dearly. There were but few men now
in the House whose connection with the same body of con-
stituents had remained unbroken so long as had that which
bound him to West Barsetshire; and he confidently hoped
that that conn^ciion might be continued through anothei
period of cominft years till he might find himself in the glorious
Mr. Sowerby without Company 357
position of being the father of the county members of the
House of Commons.” The placard said much more than this,
and hinted at sundry and various questions, all of great
interest to the county ; but it did not say one word of the
Duke of Omnium, though every one knjw what the duke was
supposed to be doing in the matter, lie was, as it were, a
great IJama, shut up in a holy of holies, inscrutable, invisible,
inexorable, — not to be seen by men’s eyes or heard by their
ears, hardly to be mentioned by ordinary men at such [x^riods
as these without an inward quaking. 13ut, nevertheless, it was
he who was supposed to rule them. Euphemism required
that his name should be mentioned at no public meetings in
connection with the coming election ; but, nevertheless, most
men in the countv believed that he coild send his dog up to
the House of Comm .xi', as member foi West Barsetshire if it
so pleased him.
It was supposed, therefore, that our friend Sowerby would
have no chance; hut he was lucky in hiding the as,isiance in
a quarter from which he ceiiainly had not deserved it. He
had been a staunch friend of the gods during the whole of his
political life, — as, indeed, was to be expected, seeing that he
had been the duke’s nominee ; hut, ncve-theless, on the present
occasion, all the giants connected with the county came forward
to his rescue. They did not do this vith the acknowledged
purpose of opposing the duke ; they declared that they were
actuated by a generous disinclination .0 see an old county
member put from his seat ; but the word knew that the battle
was to be waged against the great Llama It was to be a con-
test between the powers of aristocracy and the [powers oi
oligarchy, as those powers existed in Wsst Barsetshire, — and,
it may be added, that democracy would have very little to say
to it, on one side or on the other. The lower order of /oters,
the small farmers and tradesmen, would ao dembt ran<:e them-
selves on the side of the duke, and would endeavour to flatter
themselves that they were thereby furthtiing the \iews of the
liberal side ; but they would in fact be led to tlu poll by an
old-fashioned, time-honoured adherence to the will of their
great Llama ; and by an a[)j>rehcnsion of evil ‘f that Llama
should arise and shake himself in his wrah. Mhat might not
come to the county if the Llama were to walk himself off, he
with his satellites and armies and couriers? There he was,
a great Llama ; and though he came among tbm but seldom,
and was scarcely seen when he did come, mvcrtheless — and
not the less but rather the more — was obdience to him
358 Framley Parsonage
considered as salutary and opposition regarded as dangerous. A
great rural Llama is still sufficiently mighty in rural England.
But the priest of the temple, Mr. Fothergill, was frequent
enough in men’s eyes, and it was beautiful to hear with how
varied a voice he alluded to the things around him and to the
changes which were coming. To the small farmers, not only
on the Gatherum property, but on others also, he spoke of the
duke as a benehcert influence shedding prosperity on all
around him, keeping ip prices by his presence, and forbidding
the poor rates to rise above one and fourpence in the pound
by the general emplo)ment which he occasioned. Men must
be mad, he thought, vho would willingly fly in the duke’s face.
To the squires from i. distance he declared that no one had
a right to charge the duke with any interference; as far, at
least, as he knew the duke’s mind. People would talk of
things of which they inderstood nothing. Could any one say
that he had traced d single request for a vote home to the
duke? Ail this did not alter the settled conviction on men’s
minds; but it had ts effect, and tended to increase the
mystery in which tte duke’s doings were enveloped. But
to his own familiars, to the gentry immediately around him,
Mr. Fothergill merely winked his eye. They knew what was
what, and so did he. The duke had never been bit yet in
such matters, and Mr Fothergill did not think that he would
now submit himself tc any such operation.
I never heard in what manner and at what rate Mr. Fothergill
received remuneratioi for the various services performed by
him with reference tc the duke’s property in Barsetshire ; but
1 am very sure that, vhatever might be the amount, he earned
it thoroughly. Never was there a more faithful partisan, or
one who, in his partisanship, was more discreet. In this
matter of the coming election he declared that he himself —
personally, on his ovn hook — did intend to bestir himself
actively on behalf oi Lord Dumbello. Mr. Sowerby was an
old friend of his, and a very good fellow. That was true. But
all the world must acmit that Sowerby was not in the position
which a county member ought to occupy. He was a ruined
man, and it would no: be for his own advantage that he should
be maintained in a position which was fit only for a man of
property. He' knew — ^he, Fothergill — that Mr. Sowerby must
abandon all rijht and claim to Chaldicotes ; and if so, what
W[ould be more^bsurd than to acknowledge that he had a right
at.id claim to thi seat in Parliament. As to Lord Dumbello, it
wa^ probable he would soon become one of the largest
Mr, Sowerby without Company 359
landowners in the county ; and, as such, who could be more
fit for the representatioa? Beyond this, Mr. Fothergill was
not ashamed to confess — so he said — that he hoped to hold
Lord Dumbello's agency. It would be compatible with his
other duties, and therefore, as a matter of course, he intended
to support Lord Dumbello ; he himself, that is. As to the
duke's mi’^d in the matter ! But I have already explained
how Mr. Fothergill disposed of that.
In these days, Mr. Sowerby came down to his own house —
for ostensibly it was still his own house— but he came very
quietly, and his arrival was hardly known in his own village.
Though his placard was stuck up so widely, he himself took no
electioneering steps; none, at least, as yet. The protection
against arrest which he derived from Parliament would soon
be over, and those who were most bitter against the duke
averred that steps would be taken to arrest him, should he
give sufficient opportunity to the myrmidons of the law. That
he would, in such case, be arrested was very likely ; but it was
not likely that this would be done in an; way at the duke's
instance. Mr. Fothergill declared indignantly that this insinua-
tion made him very angry ; but he was too prudent a man to
be very angry at anything, and he knew how to make capital
on his own side of charges such as these vhich overshot their
own mark. Mr. Sowerby came down veiy quietly to Chaldi-
cotes, and there he remained for a couple cf days, quite alone.
The place bore a very different aspect nov to that which we
noticed when Mark Robarts drove up to 1, in the early pages
of this little narrative. There were no lights in the windows
now, and no voices came from the stables ; no dogs barked,
and all was dead and silent as the grave. During the greater
portion of those two days he sat alone withh the house, almost
unoccupied. He did not even open his letters, which lay piled
on a crowded table in the small breakfast parlour in which he
sat ; for the letters of such men come in piles, and there are
few of them which are pleasant in the reating. There he sat,
troubled with thoughts which were sad enough, now and then
moving to and fro the house, but for the most part occupied
in thinking over the position to which he tad brought himself.
What would he be in the world's eye, if he ccasjd to be the
owner of Chaldicotes, and ceased also to be tin member for
his county ? He had lived ever before the world an^ though
always harassed by encumbrances, had jeen sustained and
comforted by the excitement of a prominent position. His
debts and difficulties had hitherto l^en bearaUe, and he had
360 Framley Parsonage
borne them with ease so long that he had almost taught him
self to think that they would never be unendurable. But
now
The order for foreclosing had gone forth, and the harpies of
the law, by their present speed in sticking their claws into the
carcase of his property, were atoning to themselves for the
delay with which they had hitherto been compelled to appioach
their prey. And the order as to his seat had gone forth also.
That placard had jeen drawn up by the combined efforts of
his sister. Miss Dunstable, and a certain well-known electioneer-
ing agent, named Closerstill, presumed to be in the interest of
the giants. But poor Sowerby had but little confidence in the
placard. No one knew better th.an he how great was the
duke’s power. He was hopeless, therefore, as he walked
about through those empty rooms, ihn\king of his past life
and of that life which was to come. Would it not be well for
him that he were dead, now that he was dying to all that had
made the world pleasant. We see and hear of such men as
Mr. Sowerby, and are apt to think that they enjoy all that the
world can give, and that they enjoy that all without payment
either in care or labour ; but I doubt that, with even the most
callous of them, thtir periods of wretchedness must be frequent,
and that wretchedness very intense. Salmon and lamb in
Februjary, and green pease and new potatoes in March, can
haidly make a maa happy, even though nobody pays for them ;
and the feeling that one is an antecedentem scelestum after whom
a sure, though lane, Nemesis is hobbling, must sometimes dis-
turb one’s slumbe s. On the present occasion Scelestus felt
that his Nemesis had overtaken him. Lame as she had been,
and swift as he liad run, she had mouthed him at last, and
there was nothing left for him but to listen to the “ whoop ”
set up at the sight of his own death-throes.
It was a melancholy, dreary place now, that big house of
Chaldicotes ; and though the woods were all green with their
early leaves and ihe garden thick with flowers, they aLo
were melancholy and dreary. The lawns were untrirnmed and
weeds were growing through the gravel, and here and there a
cracked Dryad, tumbled from her pedestal, and sprawling in
the grass, gave a look of disorder to the whole place. The
wooden trcliis-work was shattered here and bending there, the
standard rose-trees were stooping to the ground, and the leaves
of the winter btill encumbered the borders. Late in the even-
ing of the second day Mr. Sowerby strolled out, and went
through the ^rdens into the wood. Of all the inanimate
Mr. Sowerby without Company 361
things of the world this wood of Chaldicotes was the dearest
to him. He was not a •man to whom his companions gave
much credit for feelings or thoughts akin to poetry, but here,
out in the Chace, his mind would be almost poetical. While
wandering among the forest trees, he became susceptible of
the tenderness of human nature : he would listen to the birds
singing, ai i pick here and there a wild flower on his path. He
would watch the decay of the old trees and the progrc.'ss of the
young, and m:ikc piriures in his eyes of every turn in th.^ wood.
He would maik the colour of a bit of road as it dipped into a
(hdl, and then, passing through a water-course, rose brown,
rough, irregular, and beautiful against the bank on the other
hide. And then he would sit and think of lis old family : how
they had roamed there time out of mind in those Chaldicotes
woods, father and con and grandson in regular succession, each
giving them over, without blemish or decretse, to his successor.
So he would sit ; and so he did sit even nDw, and, thinking of
these things, wished that he had never been born.
It \Nas dark night when hi‘ returned to the house, and as
he did so he resolved that he would quit the place altogether,
and give up the battle as lost. The duk^ should take it and
do as he pleased with it ; and as for the seat in Parliament,
Lord Dumhello, or any other equally giftsd young patrician,
might hold it for him. He would vanish from the scene and
betake himself to some land from whence le would be neither
heard nor seen, and theie — starve. Such vere now his future
outlooks into the world ; and yet, as rcgirds health and all
physical capacities, he knew that he was still in the prime of
his life. Yes ; in the prime of his life ! But what could he
do with what remained to him of such prime ? How could he
turn either his mind or his strength to such account as might
now be serviceable ? How could he, in liis sore need, earn
for himself even the barest bread ? Would it not be l>etter for
him that he should die? Let not any one covet tlie lot of
a spendthrift, even though the days of his early pease
and champagne seem to be unnumbered ; for that lamt
Nemesis will surely be up before the game has been all
played out. When Mr. Sowerby reached his hou>e he found
that a message by telegraph had arrived for him in his
absence. It was from his sister, and it inforned him that
she would be with him that night. She was X)ming down
by the mail train, had telegraphed to BarchfSter for post-
horses, and would be at Chaldicotes about t^o hours after
midnight. It was therefore manifest enough tUt her business
362 Framley Parsonage
was of importance. Exactly at two the Barchester post-chaise
did arrive, and Mrs. Harold Smith, before she retired to her
bed, was closeted for about an hour with her brother. “Well,”
she said, the following morning, as they sat together at the
breakfast table, “ what do you say to it now ? If you accept
her offer you should be with her lawyer this afternoon.”
“ I suppose I must accept it,” said he.
“ Certainly, I thiak so. No doubt it will take the property
out of your own hands as completely as though the duke had
it, but it will leave you the house, at any rate, for your life.”
“ What good will the house be when I can't keep it up ? ”
“ But I am not sc sure of that. She will not want more than
her fair interest ; aid as it will be thoroughly well managed, I
should think that there would be something over — something
enough to keep up ihe house. And then, you know, we must
have some place in che country ? ”
“ 1 tell you fairly, Harriet, that I will have nothing further to
do with Harold in iie way of money.”
“ Ah ! that was because you would go to him. Why did you
not come to me ? And then, Nathaniel, it is the only way in
which you can have a chance of keeping the seat. She is the
queerest woman 1 e/er met, but she seems resolved on beating
the duke.”
“1 do not quite understand it, but I have not the slightest
objection.”
“She thinks thit he is interfering with young Gresham
about the Crown property. 1 had no idea that she had so
much business at her fingers’ ends. When I first proposed
the matter she tooli it up quite as a lawyer might, and seemed
to have forgotten iltogether what occurred about that other
matter.”
“ I wish I could forget it also,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“ I really think that she does. When I was obliged to make
some allusion to i \ — at least I felt myself obliged, and was
very sorry afterwards that I did^ — she merely laughed — a great
loud laugh as she always does, and then went on about the
business. However, she was clear about this, that all the
expenses of the election should be added to the sum to be
advanced by her, and that the house should be left to you
without any i^nt. If you choose to take the land round the
house you must pay for it, by the acre, as the tenants do.
She was as cle^r about it all as though she had passed her life
in a lawyer’s o^ce.”
My readers ^11 now pretty well understand what last step
Is there Cause or Just Impediment? 363
that excellent sister, Mrs. Harold Smith, had taken on her
brother's behalf, nor will they be surprised to learn that in
the course of the day Mr. Sowerby hurried back to town and
pul himself into communication with Miss Dunstable’s lawyer
CHAPTER XXXVIII
IS THERE CAUSE OR JUST IMPEDIMENT?
I NOW purpose to visit another country h^use in Barsetshire,
but on this occasion our sojourn shall be in the eastern
division, in which, as in every other county in England,
electioneering matters are paramount at the present moment.
It has been mentioned that Mr. Gresham, junior, young Frank
Gresham as he ^vas always called, lived at i place called Boxall
Hill. This property had come to his wife by will, and he was
now settled there, — seeing that his father s.ill held the family
seat of the Greshams at Greshamsbury. At the present
moment Miss Dunstable was slaying at Bocall Hill with Mrs.
Frank Gresham. They had left London, as, indeed, all the
world had done, to the terrible dismay of the London trades-
men. This dissolution of Parliament was ruining everybody
except the country publicans, and had of course destroyed the
London season among other things.
Mrs. Harold Smith had only just managed to catch Miss
Dunstable before she left London; but shedid do so, and the
great heiress had at once seen her lawyers, and instructed
them how to act with reference to the mortgages on the
Chaldicotes property. Miss Dunstable wis in the habit of
speaking of herself and her own pecuniary concerns as though
she herself were rarely allowed to meddle in their manage-
ment ; but this was one of those small jokes which she
ordinarily perpetrated ; for in truth few ladies, and prrhaps
not many gentlemen, have a more thorough knovdedge of
their own concerns or a more potent r)ice in t’leir own
affairs, than was possessed by Miss Dunstable. Circumstances
had lately brought her much into Barsetshire, aid she had
there contracted very intimate friendships. SIu was now
disposed to become, if possible, a Barsetshire proprietor, and
with this view had lately agreed with young Mr. Gresham that
she would become the purchaser of the Ciown jroperty. As,
however, the purchase had been commenced h his name, it
was so to be continued ; but now, as we are aware, it was
rumoured that, after all, the duke, or, if not theduke, then the
364 Framley Parsonage
Marquis of Dumbello, was to be the future owner of the
Chace. Miss Dunstable, however, was not a person to give
up her object if she could attain it, nor, under the circum-
stances, was she at all displeased at finding herself endowed
with the power of rescuing the Sowerby portion of the Chaldi-
cotes property from the duke’s chitclies. Why had the duke
meddled with her or with her friend, as to the other ju'operty ?
Therefore it was arranged that the full amount due to the
duke on mortgage should be ready for immediiJte payment ;
but it was arranged also that the security as held by Miss
Dunstable should je very valid.
Miss Dunstable, at Boxall Hill or at Gieshamsbury, was a
very different perscii from Miss Dunstable in London ; and it
was this difference which so much vexed Mrs. Giesham ; not
that her friend omitted to bring with her into the country her
London wit and aotitude for fun, but that she did not take
with her up to towr the genuine goodness and love of honesty
which made her loreable in the country. She was, as it were,
two f)ersons and Mrs. Gresham could not underst' nd that
any lady should fermit herself to be more worldly at one
time of the year .han at another — or in one place tii.-n in
any other. “ Well my dear, I’m heartily glad we’ve d(»ne with
that,” Miss Dunstible said to her, as she sat herself down to
her df^;k in the d awing-room on the first morning after her
arrival at Boxall Hill.
“ What does * tint’ mean ?” said Mrs. Giesham.
“ Why, London and smoke and late hours, and standing on
one’s legs for four lours at ^ stretch on the top of one’s own
staircase, to be be wed at by any one who chooses to come.
That’s all done — for one year, at any rate.”
“ You know you like it.”
“No, Mary; that’s just v\hat 1 don't know. I don’t know
whether I like it or not. Sometimes, when the spirit of that
dearest of all women, Mis. Harold Smith, is upon me, I think
that I do like it; lut then, again, when other spirits are on
me, I think that I con’t.”
“ And who are the owners of the other spirits ? ”
“Oh, you are one, of course. But you are a weak little
thing, by no means able to contend with such a Samson as
Mrs. Harold. And then you are a little given to wickedness
yourself, you know. You’ve learned to like London w^eli
enough since you sat down to the table of Dives. Your
uncle — he’s th4 real, impracticable, unapfiroachahle Lazarus
who declares th^t he can’t come down because of the big gulf.
Is there Cause or Just Impediment? 365
I wonder how he’d behave, if somebody left him ten thousand
a year ?”
“Uncommonly well, lam sure.”
“ Oh, ) es ; he is a Lazarus now, so of course we are bound
to speak well of him ; but I should like to see him tried. I
don’t doubt but what he’d have a house in Belgrave Square,
and become noted for his little dinners before the first year of
his trial was ov^ei.”
“Well, and why not? You would not vrish him to be an
anchorite ? ”
“ I am told that he is going to try his kick — not with ten
thousand a year, but with one or two.”
“ What do you mean ? ”
“Jane tells me *^bat they all say at Greshamsbury that he is
going to marry Lady Scalcherd.” Now Lady Scatcherd was a
widow living in those parts ; an excellent woman, but one not
formed by nature to grace society of the higiest order.
“ What ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Gresham, rising up from her chair,
while her eyes flashed with anger at such a lumour.
“ Well, my dear, don’t eat me. I don’t siy it is so ; I only
say that Jane said so.”
“ Then you ought to send Jane out of the house.”
“You may be sure of this, my dea^* : Jare would not have
told me if somebody had not told her.”
“ And you believed it ? "
“ I have said nothing about that.”
“ But you look as if you had believed it.”
Uo I ? Let us see what sort of a look it is, this look of
faith.” And Miss Dunstable got up and weit to the ghss over
the fire-place. “ But, Mary, my dear, ain’t jou old erough to
know that you should not credit people’s locks ? Yoi should
believe nothing now-a-days ; and I did not believe -he story
about poor Lady Scatcherd. I know the doctor wei enough
to be sure that he is not a marrying man.”
“What a nasty, hackneyed, false phrase that is--that of a
marrying man I It rounds as though some men vJre in the
habit of getting married three or four times a mont.”
“It means a great deal all the same. One cn tell very
soon whether a man is likely to marry or nc.”
“ And can one tell the same of a woman? ”
“ The thing is so different. All unmarrier women arc
necessarily in the market; but if they behai themselves
propiirly they make no signs. Now there was Gr^lda Grantly ;
of course she intended to get herself a husbjid, and a very
366 Framley Parsonage
grand one she has got : but she always looked as though butter
would not melt in her mouth. It would have been very wrong
to call her a marrying girl.”
“ Oh, of course she was,” says Mrs. Gresham, with that sort
of acrimony which one pretty young woman so frequently
expresses with reference to another. “ But if one could
always tell of a woman, as you say you can of a man, 1 should
be able to tell of you. Now, I wonder whether you are a
marrying woman? I have never been able to make up my
mind yet.”
Miss Dunstable remained silent for a few moments, as
though she were at first minded to take the question as being,
in some sort, one niade in earnest ; but then she attempted to
laugh it off. “ We.l, I wonder at that,” said she, “ as it was
only the other day I told you how many offers I had refused.”
“ Yes ; but you did not tell me whether any had been made
that you meant to tccept.”
“None such was ever made to me. Talking of that, I shall
never forget your ousin, the Honourable George.”
“ He is not my cousin.”
“ Well, your husband’s. It would not be fair to show a man’s
letters ; but I shoud like to show you his.”
“ You are deternined, then, to remain single ? ”
“ I 'didn’t say thit. But why do you cross-question me so ? ”
“ Because I think so much about you. I am afraid that you
will become so afriid of men’s motives as to doubt that any
one can be honest And yet sometimes I think you would be
a happier woman 2 nd a better woman, if you were married.”
“ To such an ont as the Honourable George, for instance ? ”
“ No, not to sucti an one as him ; you have probably picked
out the worst.”
** Or to Mr. Sowerby ? ”
“ Well, po ; not to Mr. Sowerby, either. I would not have
you marr^ any man that looked to you for your money
principally.^
“ And h\w is it possible that I should expect any one to
look to me Winciptlly for anything else ? You don’t see my
difficulty, m\ dear ? If I had only five hundred a year, I might
come across^me decent middle-aged personage, like myself,
who would iVe me, myself, pretty well, and would like my
little incomeVpretty well also. He would not tell me any
violent lie, an^erhaps no lie at all. I should take to him in
the same sort d way, and we might do very well. But, as it is,
how is it possic^ t^t any disinterested person should learn to
Is there Cause or Just Impediment? 367
like me ? How could such a man set about it ? If a sheep
have two heads, is not the fact of tlie two heads the first
and, indeed, only thing which the world regards in that
sheep? Must it not be so as a matter of course? I am
a sheep with two heads. All this money which my father
put together, and which has been growing since like grass
under May showers, has turned me into an abortion, I
am not the giantess eight feet high, or the dwarf that stands in
the man’s hand *’
“ Or the two-headed sheep ”
“ But I am the unmarried woman with — lalf-a-dozen millions
of money — as I believe some people think. Under such
circumstances have I a fair chance of getting my own sweet
bit of grass to nibble, hke any ordinary aninal with one head ?
I never was very beautiful, and I am not nore so now than I
was fifteen years ago.”
“ I am quite sure it is not that which hinders it. You
would not call yourself plain; and ever plain women are
married every day, and are loved too, as well as pretty
women.”
“ Are they ? Well, we won’t say mo'e about that ; but
I don’t expect a great many lovers on ac:ount of my beauty.
If ever you hear of such an one, mind yoi tell me.” It was
almost on Mrs. Uresham’s tongue to say that she did enow of
one such — meaning her uncle. But in truth, she did not
know any such thing ; nor could she boast to herself that she
had good grounds for feeling that it was so — certahly none
sufficient to justify her in speaking of it. .ier uncle had said
no word to her on the matter, and had iieen confised and
embarrassed when the idea of such a mairiage was linted to
him. But, nevertheless, Mrs. Gresham die think tht each of
these two was well inclined to love the other, and that they
would be happier together than they would be siigle. The
difficulty, however, was very great, for the docto’ would be
terribly afraid of being thought covetous in regad to Miss
Dunstable’s money ; and it would hardly be expeced that she
should be induced to make the first overture to th doctor.
“ My uncle would be the only man that I can-hink of that
would be at all fit for you,” said Mrs. Gresham, bldly.
“ What, and rob poor Lady Scatcherd ! said Miss
Dunstable.
“ Oh, very well. If you choose to make a of his name
in that way I have done.”
“ Why, God bless the girl, what does she me to say ?
368 Framley Parsonage
And as for joking, surely that is innocent enough. You're
as tender about the doctor as though he were a girl of
seventeen."
“ It's not about him ; but it's such a shame to laugh at poor
dear Lady Scatcherd. If she were to hear it she'd lose all
comfort in having my uncle near her.”
“ And I'm to marry him, so that she may be safe with her
friend.”
“ Very well ; I hive done.” And Mrs. Gresham, who had
already got up from her seat, employed herself very sedulously
in arranging floweis which had been brought in for the
drawing-rooin tables. Thus they remained silent for a minute
or two, during which she began to reflect that, after all, it might
probably be though; that she also was endeavouring to catch
the great heiress for her uncle.
“ And now you aie angry with me,” said Miss Dunstable.
“No, I am not.”
“ Oh, but you ar<. Do you think I'm such a fool as not to
see when a person's vexed ? You wouldn't have twitched
that geranium's heal off if you'd been in a proper frame of
mind.'*
“ I don't like that joke about Lady Scatcherd.”
“ And is that all, Mary ? Now do try and be true, if you
can. You remember the bishop ? Magna est veritas**
“ The fact is youve got into such a way of being sharp, and
saying sharpy things among your friends up in I.ondon, that you
can hard'y answer i person without it.”
“ Can'i I ! Dear, dear, what a Mentor you are, Mary ! No
poor lad '■hat ever rin up from Oxford for a spree in town got
so lecturul for his dissipation and iniquities as I do. Well,
I beg Di, Thorne's pardon, and Lady Scatcherd's, and I
won't be iarp any more 3 and I will — let me sec, what was
it I was to do ? Marry him myself, I believe ; was not
that it ? '*
“ No ; ydl're not half good enough for him.”
“I know^hat. I'm quite sure of that. Though I am so
sharp. I’m vky humble. You can't accuse me of putting any
very great va\e on myself.”
“ Perhaps At as much as you ought to do — on yourself.”
“Now vrhamo you mean, Mary? I won't be bullied and
teased, and hit innuendos thrown out at me, because you've
got something V your mind, and don't quite dare to speak it
out. If you hie got anything to say, say it.” But Mrs.
Gresham did no\choose to say it at that moment. She held
Is there Cause or Just Impediment? 369
her peace, and went on arranging her ilowers — now with a more
satisfied air, and without destruction to the geraniums. And
when she had grouped her bunches properly she carried the
jar from one part of the room to another, backwards and
forwards, trying the effect of the colours, as though her mind
was quite intent upon her flowers, and was for the moment
wholly unoccupied with any other subject. But Miss Dunstable
was not the woman to put up with this. She sat silent in her
place, while her friend made one or two turns about the room ;
and then she got up from her seat also. “ Mary,” she said,
“ give over about those wretclied bits of green branches, and
leave the jars where they are. You’re trying to fidget rne into
a passion.”
“ Am I ? ” said Mrs. Gresham, standing opposite to a big
bowd, and putting her head a little on one side, as though she
could better look at her handiwork in that position.
“ You know you are ; and it’s all became you lack courage
to speak out. You didn’t begin at me in this vay for
nothing.”
“I do lack courage. That’s just it,” said Mrs. Gesham,
still giving a twist here and a set there tc some of tie small
sprigs which constituted the background cf her bouqiet. “ I
do lack courage — to have ill motives imputed to me. I was
thinking of saying something, and T :un afaid, atid therefore 1
will not say it. And now, if you like, I wll ))c read' to take
you out in ten minutes.” But Miss Dunstable was rot going
to be put off in this way. And to tell the truth I must
admit that her friend Mrs. Gresham was not ising her
altogether well. She should either have held her pea'e on the
matter altogether — which would probably Lave been her wiser
course — or she should have declared her own idas boldly,
feeling secure in her own conscience as to her ow* motives.
“ I shall not stir from this room,” said Miss Dunsti-)le, “ till 1
have had this matter out with you. And as for inJutations —
my imputing bad motives to you — I dont knowiow far you
may be joking, and saying what you call sharp tings to me ;
but you have no right to think that I should ihir evil of you.
If you really do think so, it is treason to the ke I have for
you. If I thought that you thought so, I couldiot remain in
the house with you. What, you are not abldo know the
difference which one makes between one’s real frinds and one’s
mock friends 1 I don’t believe it of you, and know' you are
only striving to bully me.” And Miss Dunstal^ now took her
turn of walking up and down the room.
370 Framley Parsonage
“ Well, she shan't be bullied,” said Mrs. Gresham, leaving
her flowers, and putting her arm round her friend's waist ; —
** at least, not her^ in this house, although she is sometimes
such a bully hersej.”
“ Mary, you have gone too far about this to go back. Tell
me what it was tha was on your mind, and as far as it concerns
me, I will answer jou honestly.” Mrs. Gresham now began to
repent that she had made her little attempt. That uttering of
hints in a half-jokirg way was all very well, and might possibly
bring about the dtsired results, without the necessity of any
formal suggestion Oi her part ; but now she was so brought to
book that she must say something formal. She must commit
herself to the expression of her own wishes, and to an
expression also of sti opinion as to what had been the wishes
of her friend ; and his she must do without being able to say
anything as to the vishes of that third person. “ vVell,” she
said, “I suppose you know what I meant ? ”
“ I suppose I die,” said Miss Dunstal^le ; “ but it is not at
all the less necessaiy that you should say it out. I am not to
commit myself by my interpretation of your thoughts, while
you renain perfectly secure in having only hinted your own.
I hate lints, as I dj — the mischief. I go in for the bishop's
doctrine. Magna ist veritas^^
“ I don't know,” said Mrs. Gresham.
Ah \ but I do,' said Miss Dunstable. “ And therefore go
on, or f(r ever hold your peace.”
“ Tha's just it,” said Mrs, Gresham.
“ Whs^'sjust it i|'' said Miss Dunstable.
“ Theguotationiout of the Prayer Book which you finished
just now. ‘ If any of you know cause or just impediment why
these tw4 personi should not be joined together in holy
matrimom ye aip to declare it. This is the first time of
asking.' \p you know any cause. Miss Dunstable ? ”
“ Do yoaknow any, Mrs. Gresham ? ”
“ None, t my honour ? ” said the younger lady, putting her
hand upon ki bresst.
“ Ah ! buWo yoi not ? ” and Miss Dunstable caught hold
of her arm, & spoke almost abruptly in her energy.
“ No, certJ^ily not. What impediment? If I did, I should
not have bribed the subject. I declare I think you would
both be very Ippy together. Of course, there is one impedi-
ment ; we all tow that. That must be your look out.”
“ What do y\ mean ? What impediment ? ”
“ Your own i|jney.”
Is there Cause dr Just Impeffiment ? 371
“Psha. Did you find that an impediment in marrying
Frank Gresham ? ”
“Ah! the matter was so different there. He had much
more to give than I had, vrhtn all was counted. And I had no
money when we — when we vere first engaged.” And the tears
came into her eyes as she thought of the circumstances of her
early lov>»; — all of which have been narrated in the county
chronicles of Barsetshire, and may now be read by men and
women interested therein.
“Yes; yours was a love match. I declare, Mary, I often
think that you are the happiest woman of vhom I ever heard ;
to have it all to give, wher you were so sure that you were
loved while you yet had nothing.”
“ Yes ; I was sure,” and she wiped the sveet tears from her
eyes, as she reinemljered a certain day when a certain youth
had come to her, claiming all kinds of privileges in a very
determined manner. She had been no heiress then. “ Yes ;
1 was sure. But now with you, dear, you can*t make yourself
poor again. If you can trust no one ”
“ I can. I can trust him. As regards tiat I do trust him
altogether. But how can I tell that he would care for me ? ”
“ Do you not know that he likes you ? ”
“ Ah, yes ; and so he does Lady Scatcherd.*
“ Miss Dunstable 1 ”
“ And w'hy not Lady Scatcherd, as well as ne ? We are of
the same kind — come from the same class.”
“ Not quite that, I think.”
“ Yes, from the same class ; only I have nanaged to poke
myself up among dukes and duchesses, wtereis she has been
content to remain where God placed her. Where I beat her
in art, she beats me in nature.”
“ You know you are talking nonsense.”
“ 1 think that we are both doing that — sbsdute nonsense ;
such as schoolgirls of eighteen talk to each other. But there
is a relief in it ; is there not ? It would be a terriWe curse to
have to talk sense always. Well, that’s doie ; a^iA now let us
go out.” Mrs. Gresham was sure after this .hat Mss Dunstable
would be a consenting party to the little arnrigenvnt which she
contemplated. But of that she had felt out lide doubt for
some considerable time past. The difficiity la^on the other
side, and all that she had as yet done was to cvnvince herself
that she would be safe in assuring her mclrhf success if he
could be induced to take the enterprise in ^nd. He was to
come to Boxall Hill that evening, and ti imain there for a
372 Framley Parsonage
(lay or two. If anything could be done in the matter, now
would be the time for doing it. So at least thought Mrs.
Gresham.
The doctor did come, and did remain for the allotted time
at Boxall Hill ; but when he left, Mrs. Gresham had not been
successful. Indeed, he did not seem to enjoy his visit as was
usual with him ; and there was very little of that pleasant
friendly intercourse which for some time past had been
cu.stomary between him and M ss Dunstable. There were
no passages of arms between them ; no abuse from the
doctor against the lady’s London gaiety; no raillery from
the lady as to the doctor’s country habits. 'Fhey were very
courteous to each other, and, as Mrs. Gresham thought, too
civil by half ; nor, as f.ir as she could see, did they ever
remain alone in each other’s company for five minutes at a
time during the whole period of the doctor’s visit. What,
thought Mrs. Gresham to herself, — what il she had set these
two friends at variance with each other, instead of binding
them together in the closest and most durable friendship i
But still she had an idea that, as she had begun to play this
game, she must play it out. She felt conscious that what she
had done must do evil, unless she could so carry it on as to
make it result in good. Indeed, unless she could so manage,
she would hav(^ done a manifest injury to Miss Dunstable i-n
forcing* her to declare her thoughts and feelings. She had
already spoken to her uncle in London, and though he had
said nerthing to show that he approved of her plan, neither had
he said anything to show that he disapproved it. Tlicrefore
she had hoped Ihrough the whole of those three days that he
would make some sign, — at any rate to her ; that he would in
some way declare what were his own thoughts on this matter.
But the morning of his departure came, and he had declared
nothing. “ Uncle,” she said, in the last five minutes of his
sojourn th^re, after he had already taken leave of Miss
Dunstable and shaken hands with Mrs. Gresham, “ have
you ever thojghl of what I said to you up in London ? ”
“ Yes, Man ; of course I have thought about it. Such an
idea as that,. when put into a man’s head, will make itself
thought aboui”
“ Well ; and wliat next ? Do talk to me about it. Do not
be so hard andainlike yourself.”
“ I have very 'iittle to say about it.”
“ I can tell yoi this for certain, you may if you like.”
” Mary I Mary\”
How to Write a Love Letter 373
“I would not say so if I were not sure that I should not lead
you into trouble.”
“ You are foolish in wishng this, my dear; foolish in trying
to tempt an old man into a folly.”
“ Not foolish if I know tlat it will make you both happier.”
He made her no further isply, but stooping down that she
might ki s him, as was hij wont, went his way, leaving her
almost miserable in the thought that she had troubled all
these waters to no purpoje. What would Miss Dunstable
think of her? But on that afternoon Miss Dunstable seemed
to be as happy and even-tempered as ever.
CHAPTER XXXIX
HOW TO WlvITE A LOVE LKlTl R
Dr. Thorne, in the few words which he spoke to his niece
before he left Boxall Hill, had called himsilf an old man ; but
he was as yet on the right side of sixty by fi^e good years, and
boic about with him less of the marks of a^e than most men
of fifty-five do bear. One would have said, in looking at him,
that there was no reason why he should not narry if he found
that such a step seemed good to him; anc, looking at the
age of' the proposed bride, there was ncthng unsuitable in
that respect. But nevertheless he felt ilnost ashamc.d of
himself, in that he allowed himself even to think of the
proposition which his niece had made. He mounted his
horse that day at Boxali Hill — for he made all his journeys
about the county on horseback — and rode slowly home to
Greshainsbury, thinking not so much of the suggested marriage
as of his own folly in thinking of it. Hov could ie be such
an ass at his time of life as to allow the even course of his way
to be disturbed by any such idea? Of course le could not
propose to himself such a wife as Miss Dunst:ble v/ithout
having some llioughis as to her wealth; and it-iad been the
;)ri(le ol his life so to live that the world rnightknow that he
-vas indificrent aljout money. ITis profes>ion wis all in all to
iiim; the air wh^’ch he breaihed as well as tlv bread which
ije ate; and hov> could he follow his {)r)fessin if he made
such a rn.'irriage as this? She would aspect him to go to
London with her; and what would he become, dangling at her
heels there, known only to the world th* husband of the
richest woman in the tow n ? The kind iif was one which
would be unsuitable to him; and yet, fs^e rode home, he
374 Framley Parsonage
could not resolve to rid himself of the idea. He went on
thinking of it, though he still continued to condemn himself
for keeping it in his thoughts. That night at home he would
make up his mind, so he declared to himself; and would then
write to his niece begging her to drop the subject. Having
so far come to a resolution he weit on meditating what course
of life it might be well for him to pursue if he and Miss
Dunstable should after all become man and wife.
There were two ladies whom il behoved him to see on the
day of his arrival — whom, indeed, he generally saw every day
except when absent from Greshairsbury. The first of these—
first in the general :onsideration of the people of the place —
was the wife of the, squire. Lady Arabella Gresham, a very old
patient of the doctbr*s. Her it was his custom to visit early
in the afternoon ; land then, if he were able to escape the
squire’s daily invitation to dinner, he customarily went to the
other, Ladv Scatchird, when the rapid meal in his own house
was over, fcuch, kl least, was his summer practice. “ Well,
doctor, how are fhey at Boxall Hill?” said the squire, way-
laying him ."‘n thd jravel sweep before the door. The squire
was very har.'*' sct^ar occupation in these summer months.
“Quite well, I, believe.”
“ I don’t know what’s come to Frank. I think he hates this
place now. He’i full of the election, I suppose.”
“ On, yes ; he told me to say he should be over here soon.
Of course there’ll be no contest, so he need not trouble him-
self.’' i
“Happy dog, iai’t he, doctor? to have it all before him
instead of behind him. Well, well ; he’s as good a lad as
ever lived — as ever lived. And let me see : Mary’s time ”
And then there w^re a few very important words spoken on
that subject.
“ I’ll just^tep ut to Lady Arabella now,” said the doctor.
“She’s al fretful as possible,” said the squire. “I’ve just
left her.” \
“ Nothing WriaUhe matter, I hope ? ”
“No, 1 tRnk not; nothing in your way, that is; only
specially cros^ wbbh always comes in my way. You’ll stop
and dine to-di^, of :ourse ? ”
“ Not to-da> ,sqi re.”
“ Nonsense ;\*ypu will. I have been quite counting on you.
I have' a partic4ir eason for wanting to have you to-day — a
most particular sn.” But the squire always had his par-
ticular reasons.
How to Write a Love Letter 375
“ i*m very sorry, but it is impossible to-day. I shall have
a letter to write that I must sit down to seriously. Shall I
see you when I come down from her ladyship ? ” The squire
turned away sulkily, almost without answering him, for he
now had no prospect of any alleviation to the tedium of the
evening; and the doctor went upstairs to his patient. For
Lady Arabella, though it cannot be said that she was ill, was
always a praient. It must not be supposed that she kept her
bed and swallowed daily doses, or was prevented from taking
her share in such prosy gaieties as came from time to time in
the way of her prosy life ; but it suited her turn of mind to be
an invalid and to have a doctor ; and as the doctor whom her
good fates had placed at her elbow thoroughly understood her
case, no great harm done.
“ It frets r.ic dreadfully that I cannot get to see Mary,”
Lady Arabella said, as soon as the first ordinary question as to
her ailments had been asked and answered.
“ She’s quite well, and will be over to see you before long.”
** Now I beg that she won’t. She never thinks of coming
when there can be no possible objection, and travelling, at
the present moment, would be ” Whereupon the Lady
Arabella shook her head very gravely. “Only think of the
importance of it, doctor,” she said. “ Remember the enormous
stake there is to be considered.”
“ It would not do her a ha’porth of harm if the stake were
twice as large,”
“Nonsense, doctor, don’t tell me; as if I didn’t know
myself. I was very much against her going to London this
spring, but of course what I said was overruled. It always is.
I do believe Mr. Gresham went over to Boxall Hill, on purpose
to induce her to go. But what does he care ? He’s fond ol
Frank ; but he never thinks of looking beyond the present day.
He never did, as you know well enough, doctor.”
“The trip did her all the good in the world,” said Dr.
Thorne, preferring anything to a conversation respecting the
squire’s sins.
“ I very well remember that when I was in that way it
wasn’t thougnt that such trips would do me any good. But,
perhaps, things are altered since then.”
“Yes, they are,” said the doctor. “We don’t interfere so
much now-a-days.”
“ I know I never asked for such amusements when so much
depended on quietness. I remember before Frank was bom —
4nd, indeed, when all of them were born But, as you
376 Framley Parsonage
say, things were different then ; and I can easily believe that
Mary is a person quite determined to have her own way.”
“Why, Lady Arabella, she would have stayed at home
without wishing to stir if Frank had done so much as hold up
his little finger.”
“ So did I always. If Mr. Gresham made the slightest hint
I gave way. Bui I really don’t see what one gets in return for
such implicit obedience. Now this year, doctor, of course I
should have liked to have been up in London for a week or
two. You seemed to think yourself that I might as well see
Sir Omicron.”
“ There could be no possible objection, I said.”
“Well; no; exactly; and as Mr. Gresham knew I wished
it, I think he might as well have offered it. I suppose there
can be no reason now about money.”
“But 1 understood that Mary specially asked you and
Augusta ? ”
“ Yes ; Mary was very good. She did ask me. But I know
very well that Mary wants all the room she has got in London.
The house is not at all too large for herself. And, for the
matter of that, my sister, the countess, was very anxious that
1 should be with her. But one does like to be independent
if one can, and for one fortnight I do think that Mr. Gresham
might have managed it. When I knew that he was so dread-
fully dut at elbows I never troubled him about it, — though,
goodness knows, all that was never my fault.”
“The squire hates London. A fortnight there in warm
weather would nearly be the death of him.”
“He might at any rate have paid me the compliment of
asking me. The chances are ten to one 1 should not have
gone. It is that indifference that cuts me so. He was here
just now, and would you believe it ? ”
But the doctor was determined to avoid further complaint
for the present day. “I wonder what you would feel, Lady
Arabella, if the squire were to take it into his head to go away
and amuse himself, leaving you at home. There are worse
men than Mr. Gresham, if you will believe me.” All this was
an allusion to E^rl de Courcy, her ladyship’s brother, as Lady
Arabella very well understood; and the argument was one
which was very often used to silence her.
“Upon my word, then, I should like it better than his
hanging about here doing nothing but attend to those nasty
dogs. I really sometimes think that he has no spirit left.”
“You are mistaken there. Lady Arabella,” said the doctor.
How to Write a Love Letter 377
rising with his hat in his hand, and making his escape without
further parley. As he went home he could not but think that
that phase of married life was not a very pleasant one. Mr.
Gresham and his wife were supposed by the world to live on the
best of terms. They always inhabited the same house, went out
together when they did go out, always sat in their respective
corners in the family pew, and in their wildest di earns after the
happiness of novelty never thought of Sir Cresswell Cresswell.
In some respects — with regard, for instance, to the continued
duration of their joint domesticity at the family mansion of
Greshamsbury — they might have been taken for a pattern
couple. But yet, as far as the doctor could see, they did not
seem to add much to the happiness of each other. They
loved each other, doubtless, and had either of them been in
real danger, that danger would have made the other miserable ;
but yet it might well be a question whether either would not
be more comfortable without the other.
The doctor, as was his custom, dined at five, and at seven he
went up to the cottage of his old friend Lady Scatcherd. Lady
Scatcherd was not a refined woman, having in her early days
been a labourer’s daughter, and having then married a labourer.
But her husband had risen in the world — as has been told in
those chronicles before mentioned, — and his widow was now
Lady Scatcherd with a pretty cottage and a good jointure.
She was in all things the very opposite to Lady Arabella
Gresham ; nevertheless, under the doctor’s auspices, the two
ladies were in some measure acquainted with each other.
Of her married life, also. Dr. Thorne had seen something, and
it may be questioned whether the memory of that was more
alluring than the reality now existing at Greshamsbury. Of the
two women Dr. Thorne much preferred his humbler friend,
and to her he made his visits not in the guise of a doctor, but
as a neighbour. ** Well, my lady,” he said, as he sat down by
her on a broad garden seat — ^all the world called Lady
Scatcherd “ my lady,” — " and how do these long summer days
agree with you? Your roses are twice better out than any
1 see up at the big house.”
“You may well call them long, doctor. They’re long
enQugh surely.”
“But not too long. Come, now, 1 won’t have you com-
plaining. You don’t mean to tell me that you have anything
to make you wretched ? You 'had better not, for 1 won’t
believe you.”
“ £h ; well ; wretched 1 I don’t know as I’m wretched.
378 Framley Parsonage
It’d be wicked to say that, and I with such comforts about
me.”
“1 think it would, almost.” The doctor did not say this
harshly, but in a soft, friendly tone, and pressing her hand
gently as he spoke.
“ And I didn’t mean to be wicked. I’m very thankful for
everything — leastways, I always try to be. But, doctor, it is
so lonely like.”
“ Lonely ! not more lonely than I am.”
“ Oh, yes ; you’re different. You can go everywheres. But
what can a lone woman do? I’ll tell you what, doctor; I’d
give it all up to have Roger back with his apron on and his pick
in his hand. How well 1 mind his look when he’d come home
o’ nights ! ”
*' And yet it was a hard life you had then, eh, old woman ?
It would be better for you to be thankful for what you’ve got.”
” I am thankful. Didn’t I tell you so before ? ” said she,
somewhat crossly. ** But it’s a sad life, this living alone.
I declares I envy Hannah, ’cause she’s got Jemima to sit in the
kitchen with her. I want her to sit with me sometimes, but
she won’t.”
“ Ah ! but you shouldn’t ask her. It’s letting yourself down.”
“ What do I care about down or up ? It makes no differ
ence, as he’s gone. If he had lived one might have cared
about being up, as you call it. £h, deary ; I’ll be going after
him before long, and it will be no matter then.”
“ We shall all be going after him, sooner or later ; that’s
sure enough.”
** Eh, dear, that’s true surely. It’s only a span long, as
Parson Oriel tells us, when he gets romantic in his sermons.
But it’s a hard thing, doctor, when two is married, as they can’t
have their span, as he calls it, out together. Well, I must only
put up with it, I suppose, as others does. Now, you’re not
going, doctor? You’ll stop and have a dish of tea with me.
You never see such cream as Hannah has from the Alderney
cow. Do’ey now, doctor.” But the doctor had his letter to
write, and would not allow himself to be tempted even by the
promise of Hannah’s cream. So he went his way, angering
Lady Scatcherd by his departure as he had before angered the
squire, and thinking as he went which was most unreasonable
in her wretchedness, his friend Lady Arabella or his friend
Lady Scatcherd. The former was always complaining of an
existing husband who never refused her any moderate request ;
and the other passed her days in murmuring at the loss of a
How to Write a Love Letter 379
dead husband, who in his life had ever been to her imperioui
and harsh, and had sometimes been cruel and unjust.
The doctor had his letter to write, but even yet he had not
quite made up his mind what he would put into it ; indeed, he
had not hitherto resolved to whom it should be written.
Looking at the matter as he had endeavoured to look at it, his
niece, Mrs Gresham, would be his correspondent ; but if he
brought himself to take this jump in the dark, in that case
he would address himself direct to Miss Dunstable. He
walked home, not by the straightest road, but taking a con-
siderable curve, round by narrow lanes, and through thick
flower-laden hedges, — very thoughtful. He was told that she
wished to marry him ; and was he to think only of himself?
And as to that pride of his about money, was it in truth a
hearty, manly feeUng ; or was it a false pride, of which it
behoved him to be ashamed as it did of many cognate feelings ?
If he acted rightly in this matter, why should he be afraid of
the thoughts of any one ? A life of solitude was bitter enough,
as poor I^dy Scatcherd had f omplained. But then, looking
at Lady Scatcherd, and looking also at his other near neigh-
bour, his friend the squire, there was little thereabouts to lead
him on to matrimony. So he walked home slowly through the
lanes, very meditative, with his hands behind his back. Nor when
he got home was he much more inclined to any resolute line of
action. He might have drunk his tea with Lady Scatcherd, as
well as have sat there in his own drawing-room, drinking it
alone ; for he got no pen and paper, and he dawdled over
his teacup with the utmost dilatoriness, putting off, as it were,
the evil day. To only one thing was he fixed — to this, namely,
that that letter should be written before he went to bed.
Having finished his tea, which did not take place till near
eleven, he went downstairs to an untidy little room which lay
behind his dep6t of medicines, and in which he was wont to
do his writing ; and herein he did at last set himself down to
his work. Even at that moment he was in doubt. But he
would write his letter to Miss Dunstable and see how it looked.
He was almost determined not to send it ; so, at least, he said
to himself : but he could do no harm by writing it. So he did
write it, as follows: — “ Greshamsbury, June, 185 — . My dear
Miss Dunstable — ” When he had got so far, he leaned back
in his chair and looked at the paper. How on earth was he to
find words to say that which he now wished to have said ? He
had never written such a letter in his life, or anything approach -
log to it, and now found himself overwhelmed with a difficulty
380 Framley Parsonage
of which he had not previously thought. He spent another
half-hour in looking at the paper, and was at last nearly
deterred by this new difficulty. He would use the simplest,
plainest language, he said to himself over and over again ; but
it is not always easy to use simple, plain language,— by no
means so easy as to mount on stilts, and to march along with
sesquipedalian words, with pathos, spasms, and notes of inter-
jection. But the letter did at last get itself written, and there
was not a note of interjection in it
" My dear Miss Dunstable, — 1 think it right to confess that
I should not now be writing this letter to you, had I not been
led to believe by other judgment than my own that the pro-
position which 1 am going to make would be regarded by you
with favour. Without such other judgment I should, I own,
have feared that the great disparity between you and me in
regard to money would have given to such a proposition an
appearance of being false and mercenary. All 1 ask of you
now, with confidence, is to acquit me of such fault as that.
“When you have read so far you will understand what
I mean. We have known each other now somewhat intimately,
though indeed not very long, and I have sometimes fancied
that you were almost as well pleased to be with me as I have
been to be with you. If I have been wrong in this, tell me so
simply; and 1 will endeavour to let our friendship run on as
though this letter had not been written. But if 1 have been
right, and if it be possible that you can think that a union
between us will make us both happier than we are single, 1
will plight you my word and troth with good faith, and will do
what an old man may do to make the burden of the world lie
light on your shoulders. Looking at my age I can hardly keep
myself from thinking that I am an old fool : but 1 try to
reconcile myself to that by remembering that you yourself are
no longer a girl. You see that 1 piiy you no compliments, and
that you need expect none from me.
“ I do not know that I could add anything to the truth of
this, if I were to write three times as much. All that is
necessary is, that you should know what I mean. If you do
not believe me to be true and honest already, nothing that
I can write will make you believe it.
“God bless you. I know you will not keep me long in
suspense for an answer.
“ Affectionately your friend,
“Thomas Thorne.”
How to Write a Love Letter 381
When he had finished he meditated again for another half-
hour whether it would not be right that he should add some-
thing about her money. Would it not be well for him to tell
her — it might be said in a postscript — that with regard to all
her wealth she would be free to do what she chose ? At any
rate he owed no debts for her to pay, and would still have his
own income, sufficient for his own purposes. Hut about one
o’clock he came to the conclusion that it would be better to
leave the matter alone. If she cared for him, and could trust
him, and was worthy also that he should trust her, no omission of
such a statement would deter her from coming to him : and if
there were no such trust, it would not be created by any such
assurance on his part. So he read the letter over twice, sealed
it, and took it up, together with his bed candle, into his bed-
room. Now that the letter was written it seemed to be a thing
fixed by fate that it must go. He had written it that he might
see how it looked when written ; but now that it was written,
there remained no doubt that it must be sent. So he went to
bed, with the letter on the toilette-table beside him ; and early
in the morning — so early as to make it seem that the import-
ance of the letter had disturbed his rest — he sent it off by a
special messenger to Boxall Hill. Tse wait for an answer ? ”
said the boy.
“No,” said the doctor: “leave the letter, and come
away.”
The breakfast hour was not very early at Boxall Hill in these
summer months. Frank Gresham, no doubt, went round his
farm before he came in for prayers, and his wife was probably
looking to the butter in the dairy. At any rate, they did not
meet till near ten, and therefore, though the ride from Greshams-
bury to Boxall Hill was nearly two hours’ work, Miss Dunstable
had her letter in her own room before she came down. She
read it in silence as she was dressing, while the maid was with
her in the room ; but she made no sign which could induce her
Abigail to think that the epistle was more than ordinarily im-
portant. She read it, and then quietly refolding it and placing
it in the envelope, she put it down on the table at which she
was sitting. It was full fifteen minutes afterwards that she
begged her servant to see if Mrs. Gresham were still in her
own room. Because I want to see her for five minutes, alone,
before breakfast,” said Miss Dunstable.
“ You traitor ; you false, black traitor ! ” were the first words
vhich Miss Dunstable spoke when she found herself alone with
her friend.
382 Framley Parsonage
“ Why, what's the matter ? ”
“ I did not think there was so much mischief in you, nor so
keen and commonplace a desire for match-making. Look here.
Read the first four lines ; not more, if you please ; the rest is
private. Whose is the other judgment of whom your uncle
speaks in his letter ? ”
“ Oh, Miss Dunstable ! I must read it all.”
“Indeed you'll do no such thing. You think it's a love
letter, 1 daresay; but indeed there’s not a word about love
in it."
“ I know he has offered. I shall be so glad, for I know you
like him.”
“ He tells me that I am an old woman, and insinuates that
I may probably be an old fool.”
“ I am sure he does not say that.”
“ Ah I but I'm sure that he does. The former is true
enough, and I never complain of the truth. But as to the
latter, I am by no means so certain that it is true — not in the
sense that he means it.”
“ Dear, dearest woman, don't go on in that way now. Do
speak out to me, and speak without jesting."
“Whose was the other judgment to whom he trusts so
implicitly ? Tell me that.”
“ Mine, mine, of course. No one else can have spoken to
him about it. Of course I talked to him.”
“ And what did you tell him ? ”
“ I told him ”
“ Well, out with it. Let me have the real facts. Mind, I
tell you fairly that you had no right to tell him anything. What
passed between us, passed in confidence. But let us hear what
you did say.”
“ I told him that you would have him if he ojQfered.” And
Mrs. Gresham, as she spoke, looked into her friend’s face
doubtingly, not knowing whether in very truth Miss Dunstable
were pleased with her or displeased. If she were displeased,
then how had her uncle been deceived 1
“ You told him that as a fact ? ”
“I told him that I thought so.”
“Then I suppose I am bound to have him,” said Miss
Dunstable, dropping the letter on to the floor in mock
despair.
“My dear, dear, dearest woman!” said Mrs. Gresham,
bursting into tears, and throwing herself on to hei friend’s
neck.
Internecine 383
“ Mind you are a dutiful niece,” said Miss Dunstable. “ And
now let me go and finish dressing.”
In the course of the afternoon, an answer was sent back to
Greshamsbury, in these words : —
“ Dear Dr. Thorne, — I do and will trust you in everything,
and it shall be as you would have it. Mary writes to you ; but
do not b 'lieve a word she says. I never will again, for she has
behaved so bad in this matter.
“ Yours affectionately and very truly,
“ Martha Dunstable.”
“ And so I am going to marry the richest woman in
England,” said Dr. Thorne to himself, as he sat down that
day to his mutton-chop.
CHAPTER XL
INTERNECINE
It must be conceived that there was some feeling of triumph
at Plumstead Episcopi, when the wife of the rector returned
home with her daughter, the bride elect of the Lord Dumbello.
The heir of the Marquis of Hartletop was, in wealth, the most
considerable unmarried young nobleman of the day ; he was
noted, too, as a man difiicult to be pleased, as one who was
very fine and who gave himself airs ; and to have been selected
as the wife of such a man as this was a great thing for the
daughter of a parish clergyman. We have seen in what
manner the happy girl’s mother communicated the fact to
Lady Lufton, hiding, as it were, her pride under a veil : and
we have seen also how meekly the happy girl bore her own
great fortune, applying herself humbly to the packing of her
clothes, as though she ignored her own glory. But neverthe-
less there was triumph at Plumstead Episcopi. The mother,
when she returned home, began to feel that she had been
thoroughly successful in the great object of her life. While
she was yet in London she had hardly realized her satisfaction,
and there were doubts then whether the cup might not be
dashed from her lips before it was tasted. It might be that
even the son of the Marquis of Hartletop was subject to
parental authority, and that barriers should spring up between
Griselda and her coronet; but there had been nothing of the
kind. The archdeacon had been closeted with the marquis,
and Mrs. Grantly had been closeted with the marchioness ; and
*N 'Si
384 Framley Parsonage
though neither of those noble persons had expressed themselves
gratified by their son’s proposed marriage, so also neither of
them had made any attempt to prevent it Lord Dumbello
was a man who had a will of his own — as the Grantlys boasted
amongst themselves. Poor Griselda ! the day may perhaps
come when this fact of her lord’s masterful will may not to her
be matter of much boasting. But in London, as I was saying,
there had been no time for an appreciation of the family joy.
The work to be done was nervous in its nature, and self-
glorification might have been fatal ; but now, when they were
safe at Plumstead, the great truth burst upon them in all its
splendour.
Mrs. Grantly had but one daughter, and the formation of
that child’s character and her establishment in the world had
been the one main object of the mother’s life. Of Griselda’s
great beauty the Plumstead household had long been conscious ;
of her discretion also, of her conduct, and of her demeanour
there had been no doubt. But the father had sometimes hinted
to the mother that he did not think that Grizzy was quite so
clever as her brothers. “ I don’t agree with you at all,” Mrs.
Grantly had answered. “ Besides, what you call cleverness is
not at all necessary in a girl ; she is perfectly lady-like ; even
you won’t deny that.” The archdeacon had never wished to
deny it, and was now fain to admit that what he had called
cleverness was not necessary in a young lady. At this period
of the family glory the archdeacon himself was kept a little in
abeyance, and was hardly allowed free intercourse with his own
magnificent child. Indeed, to give him his due, it must be
said of him that he would not consent to walk in the triumphal
procession which moved with stately step, to and fro, through
the Barchester regions. He kissed his daughter and blessed
her, and bade her love her husband and be a good wife ; but
such injunctions as these, seeing how splendidly she had done
her duty in securing to herself a marquis, seemed out of place
and almost vulgar. Girls about to marry curates or sucking
barristers should be told to do their duty in that station of life
to which God might be calling them ; but it seemed to be
almost an impertinence in a father to give such an injunction
to a future marchioness.
“I do not think that you have any ground for fear on her
behalf,” said Mrs. Grantly, “ seeing in what way she has hitherto
conducted herself.”
She has been a good girl,” said the archdeacon, " but she
is about to be placed in a position of great temptation.”
Internecine 385
She has a strength of mind suited for any position," replied
Mrs. Grantiy, vain-gloriously. But nevertlicless even the arch-
deacon moved about through the close of Barchester with a
somewhat prouder step since the tidings of this alliance had
become known there. The time had been — in the latter days
of his father’s life-time — when he was the greatest man of the
close. T'^e dean had been old and infirm, and Dr. Grantiy
had wielded the bishop’s authority. But since that things had
altered. A new bishop had come there, absolutely hostile to
him. A new dean had also come, who was not only his
friend, but the brother-in-law of his wife ; but even this advent
had lessened the authority of the archdeacon. The vicars
choral did not hang upon his words as they had been wont to
do, and the minor canons smiled in return to his smile less
obsequiously when they met him in the clerical circles of
Barchester. But now it seemed that his old supremacy was
restored to him. In the minds of many men an archdeacon,
who was the father-in-law of a marquis, was himself as good as
any bishop. He did not sa> much of his new connection to
others beside the dean, but he was conscious of the fact,
and conscious also of the reflected glory which shone around
his own head.
But as regards Mrs. Grantiy it may be said that she moved
in an unending procession of stately ovation. It must not be
supposed that she continually talked to her friends and neigh-
bours of Lord Dumbello and the marchioness. She was by
far too wise for such folly as that. The coming alliance having
been once announced, the name of Hartletop was hardly
mentioned by her out of her own domestic circle. But she
assumed, with an ease that was surprising even to herself, the
airs and graces of a mighty woman. She went though her
work of morning calls as though it were her business to be
affable to the country gentry. She astonished her sister, the
dean’s wife, by the simplicity of her grandeur ; and conde-
scended to Mrs. Proudie in a manner which nearly broke that
lady’s heart. “ I shall be even with her yet,” said Mrs. Proudie
to herself, who had contrived to learn various very deleterious
circumstances respecting the Hartletop family since the news
about Lord Dumbello and Griselda had become known to her.
Griselda herself was carried about in the procession, taking
but little part in it of her own, like an Eastern god. She
suffered her mother’s caresses and smiled in her mother’s face
%s she listened to her own praises, but her triumph was
apparently within. To no one did she say much on the
386 Framley Parsonage
subject, and greatly disgusted the old family housekeeper by
declining altogether to discuss the future Duinbello minage.
To her aunt, Mrs. Arabin, who strove hard to lead her into
some open-hearted speech as to her future aspirations, she was
perfectly impassive. “ Oh, yes, aunt, of course,” and “ 1*11
think about it, aunt Eleanor,” or ** Of course I shall do that if
Lord Dumbello wishes it.” Nothing beyond this could be got
from her ; and so, after half-a-dozen ineffectual attempts, Mrs.
Arabin abandoned the matter.
But then there arose the subject of clothes — of the wedding
trousseau! Sarcastic people are wont to say that the tailor
makes the man. Were I such a one, I might certainly assert
that the milliner makes the bride. As regarding her bridehood,
in distinction either to her girlhood or her wifehood — as being
a line of plain demarcation between those two periods of a
woman’s life — the milliner does do much to make her. She
would be hardly a bride if the trousseau were not there. A
girl married without some such appendage would seem to pass
into the condition of a wife without any such line of demar-
cation. In that moment in which she finds herself in the first
fruition of her marriage finery she becomes a bride; and in
that other moment when she begins to act upon the finest of
these things as clothes to be packed up, she becomes a wife.
When this subject was discussed Griselda displayed no lack of
a becoming interest. She went to work steadily, slowly, and
almost with solemnity, as though the business in hand were
one which it would be wicked to treat with impatience. She
even struck her mother with awe by the grandeur of her ideas
and the depth of her theories. Nor let it be supposed that
she rushed away at once to the consideration of the great fabric
which was to be the ultimate sign and mark of her status, the
quintessence of her briding, the outer veil, as it were, of the
tabernacle — namely, her wedding-dress. As a great poet works
himself up by degrees to tliat inspiration which is necessary
for the grand turning point of his epic, so did she slowly
approach the hallowed ground on which she would sit, with
her ministers around her, when about to discuss the nature,
the extent, the design, the colouring, the structure, and the
ornamentation of that momentous piece of apparel. No ;
there was much indeed to be done before she came to this ;
and as the poet, to whom I have already alluded, first invokes
his muse, and then bi;;ngs his smaller events gradually out
upon his stage, so did Miss Grantly with sacred fervour ask
her mother’s aid, and then prepare her list of all those articles
Internecine 387
of under-clothing which must be the substratum for the visible
magnificence of her trousseau. Money was no object. We all
know what that means ; and frequently understand, when the
words are used, that a blaze of splendour is to be attained at
the cheapest possible price. But, in this instance, money was
no object ; — such an amount of money, at least, as could by
any possibility be spent on a lady’s clothes, independently of
her jewels. With reference to diamonds and such like, the
archdeacon at once declared his intention of taking the matter
into his own hands — except in so far as Lord Dumbello, or the
Hartletop interest, might be pleased to participate in the
selection. Nor was Mrs. Grantly sorry for such a decision.
She was not an imprudent woman, and would have dreaded
the responsibility of trusting herself on such an occasion
among the dangc.ous teni[)tations of a jeweller’s shop. But as
far as silks and satins went — in the matter of French bonnets,
muslins, velvets, hats, riding-habits, artificial flowers, head-
gilding, curious nettings, enamelled buckles, golden tagged
bobbins, and mechanical petticoats — as regarded shoes, and
gloves, and corsets, and stockings, and linen, and flannel, and
calico — money, 1 may conscientiously assert, was no object.
And, under these circumstances, Griselda Grantly went to
work with a solemn industry and a steady perseverance that
was beyond all praise. “ 1 hope she will be happy,” Mi s.
Arabin said to her sister, as the two were sitting together in
the dean’s drawing-room.
Oh, yes ; I think she will. Why should she not ? ” said
the mother.
** Oh, no ; 1 know of no reason. But she is going up into a
station so much above her own in the eyes of the world that
one cannot but feel anxious for her.”
“1 should feel much more anxious if she were going to
marry a poor man,” said Mrs. Grantly. “ It has always seemed
to me that Griselda was fitted for a high position ; that nature
intended her for rank and state. You see that she is not a bit
elated. She takes it all as if it were her own by right. 1 do
not think that there is any danger that her head will be turned,
if you mean that.”
V 1 was thinking rather of her heart,” said Mrs. Arabin.
**She never would have taken Lord Dumbello without
loving him,” said Mrs. Grantly, speaking rather quickly.
** That is not quite what I mean either, Susan. 1 am sure
she would not have accepted him had she not loved him. But
U is so hard to keep the heart fresh among all the grandeurs
388 Framley Parsonage
of high rank ; and it is harder for a girl to do so who has not
been born to it, than for one who has enjoyed it as her
birthright.”
I don’t quite understand about fresh hearts,” said Mrs.
Grantly, pettishly. “ If she does her duty, and loves her
husband, and fills the position in which God has placed her
with propriety, I don’t know that we need look for anything
more. I don’t at all approve of the plan of frightening a young
girl when she is making her first outset into the world.”
“ No ; I would not frighten her. I think it would be almost
difficult to frighten Griselda.”
“ I hope it would. The great matter with a girl is whether
she had been brought up with proper notions as to a woman’s
duty. Of course it is not for me to boast on this subject.
Such as she is, I, of course, am responsible. But I must own
that I do not see occasion to wish for any change.” And then
the subject was allowed to drop.
Among those of her relations who wondered much at the
girl’s fortune, but allowed themseves to say but little, was her
grandfather, Mr. Harding. He was an old clergyman, plain
and simple in his manners, and not occupying a very prominent
position, seeing that he was only precentor to the chapter. He
was loved by his daughter, Mrs. Grantly, and was treated by
the archdeacon, if not invariably with the highest respect, at
least always with consideration and regard. But, old and plain
as he was, the young people at Plumstead did not hold him in
any great reverence. He was poorer than their other rela-
tives, and made no attempt to hold his head high in Barset-
shire circles. Moreover, in these latter days, the home of his
heart had been at the deanery. He had, indeed, a lodging of
his own in the city, but was gradually allowing himself to be
weaned away from it. He had his own bedroom in the dean’s
house, his own arm-chair in the dean’s library, and his own
comer on a sofa in Mrs. Dean’s drawing-room. It was not,
therefore, necessary that he should interfere greatly in this
coming marriage ; but still it became his duty to say a word of
congratulation to his granddaughter — and perhaps to say a word
of advice.
“Grizzy, my dear,” he said to her — ^he always called her
Grizzy, but the endearment of the appellation had never been
appreciated by the young lady — ** come and kiss me, and let
me congratulate you on your great promotion. I do so very
heartily.”
Thank you, grandpapa,” she said, touching his forehead
Internecine 389
with her lips, thus being, as it were, very sparing with her kiss.
But those lips were now august and reserved for nobler fore-
heads than that of an old cathedral hack. For Mr. Harding
still chanted the Litany from Sunday to Sunday, unceasingly,
standing at that well-known desk in the cathedral choir ; and
Griselda had a thought in her mind that when the Hartletop
people she lid hear of the practice they would not be delighted.
Dean and archdeacon might be very well, and if her grand-
father had even been a predendary, she might have put up
with him; but he had, she thought, almost disgraced his
family in being, at his age, one of the working menial
clergy of the cathedral. She kissed him, therefore, sparingly,
and resolved that her words with him should be few.
“ You are going to he a great lady, Grizzy,” said he.
“ Umph ! ” said she.
What was she to say when so addressed ?
“ And I hope you will be happy — and make others happy.”
“ I hope I shall,” said she.
“ But always think most about the latter, my dear. Think
about the happiness of those around you, and your own will
come without thinking. You understand that ; do you not ? ”
“ Oh, yes, I understand,” she said. As they were speaking
Mr. Harding still held her^hand, but Griselda left it with him
unwillingly, and therefore ungraciously, looking as though she
were dragging it from him.
“And, Grizzy — I believe it is quite as easy for a rich
countess to be happy, as for a dairymaid ” Griselda gave
her head a little chuck which was produced by two different
operations of her mind. The first was a reflection that her
grandpapa was robbing her of her rank. She was to be a rich
marchioness. And the second was a feeling of anger at the
old man for comparing her lot to that of a dairymaid.
“ Quite as easy, I believe,” continued he ; “ though others
will tell you that it is not so. But with the countess as with
the dairymaid, it must depend on the woman herself. Being a
countess — that fact alone won’t make you happy.”
“Lord Dumbcllo at present is only a viscount,” said
Griselda. “ There is no earl's title in the family.”
“ Oh ! I did not know,” said Mr. Harding, relinquishing his
granddaughter’s hand ; and, after that, he troubled her with no
further advice. Both Mrs. Proudie and the bishop had called
at Plumstead since Mrs. Grantly had come back from London,
and the ladies from Plumstead, of course, returned the visit. It
was natural that the Grantlys and Proudies should hate each
390 Framley Parsonage
Other. They were essentially church people, and their views
on all church matters were antagonistic. They had been com-
pelled to fight for supremacy in the diocese, and neither family
had so conquered the other as to have become capable of
magnanimity and good-humour. They did hate each other,
and this hatred had, at one time, almost produced an absolute
disseverance of even the courtesies which are so necessary
between a bishop and his clergy. But the bitterness of this
rancour had been overcome, and the ladies of the families had
continued on visiting terms. But now this match was almost
more than Mrs. Proudie could bear. The great disappoint-
ment which, as she well knew, the Grantlys had encountered
in that matter of the proposed new bishopric had for the
moment mollified her. She had been able to talk of poor
dear Mrs. Grantly ! “ She is heartbroken, you know, in this
matter, and the repetition of such misfortunes is hard to bear,”
she had been heard to say, with a complacency which had been
quite becoming to her. But now that complacency was at
an end. Olivia Proudie had just accepted a widowed preacher
at a district church in Bethnal Green — a man with three
children, who was dependent on pew-rents ; and Grisclda
Grantly was engaged to the eldest son of the Marquis of
Hartletop ! When women are enjoined to forgive their
enemies it cannot be intended that such wrongs as these should
be included. But Mrs. Proudie's courage was nothing daunted.
It may be boasted of her that nothing could daunt her
courage. Soon after her return to Barchester, she and Olivia —
Olivia being very unwilling — had driven over to Plumstead,
and, not finding the Grantlys at home, had left their cards ;
and now, at a proper interval, Mrs. Grantly and Griselda
returned the visit. It was the first time that Miss Grantly had
been seen by the Proudie ladies since the fact of her engage-
ment had become known.
The first bevy of compliments that passed might be likened
to a crowd of flowers on a hedge rosebush. They were
beautiful to the eye, but were so closely environed by thorns
that they could not be plucked without great danger. As long
as the compliments were allowed to remain on the hedge —
while no attempt was made to gamer them and realize their
fruits for enjoyment — they did no mischief ; but the first finger
that was put forth for such a purpose was soon drawn back,
marked with spots of blood. Of course it is a great match
for Griselda,” said Mrs. Grantly, in a whisper the meekness of
which would have disarmed an enemy whose weapons were
Internecine 391
less firmly clutched than those of Mrs. Proudie ; “ but, inde-
pendently of that, the connection is one which is gratifying in
many ways.”
“ Oh, no doubt,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“ Lord Dum hello is so completely his own master,” con-
tinued Mrs. Grantly, and a slight, unintended semi-tone of
triumph mingled itself with the meekness of that whisper.
“ And is likely to remain so, from all I hear,” said MrSr
Proudie, and the scratched hand was at once drawn back.
“ Of course the estab and then Mrs. Proudie, who
was blandly continuing her list of congratulations, whispered
her sentence close into the ear of Mrs. Grantly, so that not a
word of what she said might be audible by the young people.
“ I never heard a word of it,” said Mrs. Grantly, gathering
herself up, “and T d'‘n’t believe it.”
“ Oh, I may be wrong ; and I’m sure I hope so. But young
men will be young men, you know ; — and children will
take after their parents. I suppose you will see a great deal of
the Duke of Omnium now.” But Mrs. Grantly was not a
woman to be knocked down and trampled on without re-
sistance ; and though she had been lacerated by the rosebush
she was not as yet placed altogether hors de combat She said
some word about the Duke of Omnium very tranquilly, speak-
ing of him merely as a Barsetshire proprietor, and then, smiling
with her sweetest smile, expressed a hope that she might soon
have the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Mr. Tickler ;
and as she spoke she made a pretty little bow towards Olivia
Proudie. Now Mr. Tickler was the worthy clergyman attached
to the district church at Bethnal Green.
“ He’ll be down here in August,” said Olivia, boldly, deter-
mined not to be shamefaced about her love affairs.
“ You’ll be starring it about the Continent by that time, my
dear,” said Mrs. Proudie to Griselda. “Lord Dumbello is
well known at Homburg and Ems, and places of that sort ; so
you will find yourself quite at home.”
“ We are going to Rome,” said Griselda, majestically.
“ I suppose Mr. Tickler will come into the diocese soon,”
said Mrs. Grantly. “ I remember hearing him very favour-
ably spoken of by Mr. Slope, who was a friend of his.” Nothing
shbrt of a fixed resolve on the part of Mrs. Grantly that the
time had now come in which she must throw away her shield
and stand behind her sword, declare war to the knife, and
neither give nor take quarter, could have justified such a speech
as this. Any allusion to Mr. Slope acted on Mrs. Proudie as a
392 Framley Parsonage
red cloth is supposed to act on a bull ; but when that allusion
connected the name of Mr. Slope in a friendly bracket with
that of Mrs. Proiidie’s future son-in-law it might be certain that
tb.e effect would be terrific. And there was more than this ;
for that very Mr. Sloi)e had once entertained audacious
hopes — hopes not thought to be audacious by the young lady
herself — with reference to Miss Olivia Froudie. All this
Mrs. Grant ly knew, and, knowing it, still dared to mention
his name.
The countenance of Mrs. Proudie became darkened with
black anger, and tlie polished smile of her company manners
gave place before the outraged feelings of her nature. “ The
man you speak of, Mrs. Grantly,” said she, “ was never known
as a friend by Mr. Tickler.”
“ Oh, indeed,” said Mrs, Grantly. *• Perhaps I have made
a mistake. I am sure 1 have heard Mr. Slope mention him.”
“ When Mr. Slope was running after your sister, Mrs. Grantly,
and was encouraged by her as he was, you perhaps saw more
of him than I did.”
“ Mrs. Proudie, that was never the case.”
“ I have reason to know that the archdeacon conceived it to
be so, and that he was very unhappy about it.” Now this,
unfortunately, was a fact which Mrs. Grantly could not deny.
“ The archdeacon may have been mistaken about Mr. Slope,”
she said, “as were some other people at Barchester. But it
was you, I think, Mrs. Proudie, who were responsible for bring-
ing him here.” Mrs. Grantly, at this period of the engagement,
might have inflicted a fatal wound by referring to poor Olivia's
former love affairs, but she was not destitute of generosity.
Even in the extremest heat of the battle she knew how to spare
the young and tender.
“ When 1 came here, Mrs. Grantly, I little dreamed what a
depth of wickedness might be found in the very close of
a cathedral city,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“ Then, for dear Olivia's sake, pray do not bring poor Mr.
Tickler to Barchester.”
“ Mr. Tickler, Mrs. Grantly, is a man of assured morals and
of a highly religious tone of thinking. I wish every one could
be so safe as regards their daughters’ future prospects as I am.”
“ Yes, 1 know he has the advantage of being a family man,”
said Mrs. Grantly, getting up. “ Good morning, Mrs. Proudie ;
good day, Olivia.”
“ A great deal better that than ” But the blow fell upon
the empty air ; for Mrs. Grantly had already escaped on to the
Don Quixote 393
staircase while Olivia was ringing the bell for the servant to
attend the front-door.
Mrs. Grantly, as she got into her carriage, smiled slightly,
thinking of the battle, and as she sat down she gently pressc.d
her daughter's hand. But Mrs. Proudie's face was still dark as
Acheron when her enemy withdrew, and with angry tone she
sent her daughter to her work. “ Mr. 'I'ickler v^ill have great
reason to 'Complain if, in your position, you indulge such habits
of idleness,” she said. I'herefore I conceive that I am justified
in saying that in that encounter Mrs. Grantly was the corujiieror
CHAPTER XLI
DON QUIXOTE
On the day on which Lucy had her interview with Lady
Lufton the dean dined at Framley Parsonage. He and Robarts
had known each other since the latter had been in the diocese,
and now, owing to Mark's preferment in the chapter, had be-
come almost intimate. The <lean was greatly pleased with the
manner in which poor Mr. Crawley's children had been con-
veyed away from Hogglestock, and was inclined to open his
heart to the whole Framley household. As he still had to ride
home he could only allow himself to remain half an hour after
dinner, but in that half-hour he said a great deal about Crawley,
complimented Robarts on the manner in which he was playing
the part of the Good Samaritan, and then by degrees in-
formed him that it had come to his, the dean's ears, before he
left Barchester, that a writ was in the hands of certain persons
in the city, enabling them to seize — he did not know whether
it was the person or the property of the vicar of Framley.
The fact was that these tidings had been conveyed to the
dean with the express intent that he might put Robarts on his
guard ; but the task of speaking on such a subject to a brother
clergyman had been so unpleasant to him that he had been
unable to introduce it till the last five minutes before his
departure. “ I hope you will not put it down as an impertinent
interference,” said the dean, apologizing.
“ No,” said Mark ; “ no, I do not think that.” He was so
sad at heart that he hardly knew how to speak of it.
“ 1 do not understand much about such matters,” said the
dean ; “ but I think, if I w^ere you, I should go to a lawyer.
I should imagine that anything so terribly disagreeable as an
trrest might be avoided.”
394 Framley Parsonage
“It is a hard case,” said Mark, pleading his own cause
“ Though these men have this claim against me I have never
received a shilling either in money or money\s worth.”
“ And yet your name is to the bills ! ” said the dean.
“ Yes, my name is to the bills, certainly, but it was to oblige
a friend.”
And then the dean, having given his advice, rode away. He
could not understand how a clergyman, situated as was Mr.
Robarts, could find himself called upon by friendship to attach
his name to accommodation bills which he had not the power
of liquidating when due ! On that evening they were both
wretched enough at the parsonage. Hitherto Mark had hoped
that perhaps, after all, no absolutely hostile steps would be
taken against him with reference to these bills. Some unforc
seen chance might occur in his favour, or the persons holding
them might consent to take small instalments of payment from
time to time ; but now it seemed that the evil day was actually
coming upon him at a blow. He had no longer any secrets from
his wife. Should he go to a lawyer ? and if so, to what lawyer ?
And when he had found his lawyer, what should he say to him ?
Mrs. Robarts at one time suggested that everything should be
told to Lady Lufton. Mark, however, could not bring him-
self to do that. “It w'ould seem,” he said, “as though 1
wanted her to lend me the money.”
On, the following morning Mark did ride into Barchester,
dreading, however, lest he should be arrested on his journey,
and he did see a lawyer. During his absence two calls wcic
made at the parsonage — one by a very rough-looking individuid,
who left a suspicious document in the hands of the servant,
purporting to be an invitation — not to dinner — from one of tlie
judges of the land ; and the other call was made by Lady
Lufton in person.
Mrs. Robarts had determined to go down to Framley Court
on that day. In accordance with her usual custom she would
have been there within an hour or two of Lady Lufton’s return
from London, but things between them were not now as they
usually had been. This affair of Lucy’s must make a difference,
let them both resolve to the contrary as they might. And,
indeed, Mrs. Robarts had found that the closeness of her
intimacy with Framley Court had been diminishing from day
to day since Lucy had first begun to be on friendly terms with
Lord Lufton. Since that she had been less at Framley Court
than usual ; she had heard from Lady Lufton less frequently by
letter during her absence than she had done in former years.
Don Quixote 395
and yvi's nware that she was less implicitly trusted with all the
affairs of the parish. This had not made her angry, for she
was in a manner conscious that it must be so. It made her
unhappy, but what could she do ? She could not blame I.,ucy,
nor could she blame Lady Liifton. Lord Lufton she did
blame, but she did so in the hearing of no one but her husband.
Her mind, however, was made up to go over and bear the first
brunt of her ladyship’s arguments, when she was stopped by
her ladyship’s arrival. If it were not for this terrible matter of
Lucy’s love — a matter on which they could not now be silent
when they met — there would be twenty subjects of pleasant,
or, at any rate, not unpleasant conversation. But even then
there would be those terrible bills hanging over her conscience,
and almost crushing her by their weight. At the moment in
which Lady Luff on v.aiked up to the drawing-room window,
Mrs. Robarts held in her hand that ominous invitation from
the judge. Would it not be well that she should make a clean
breast of it all, disregarding what her husband had said? It
might be well : only this — she had never done anything in
opposition to her husband’s wishes. So she hid the slip within
her desk, and left the matter open to consideration. The
interview commenced with an affectionate embrace, as was a
matter of course. “ Dear Fanny,” and “ Dear Lady Lufton,”
was said between them with all the usual warmth. And then
the first inquiry was n\ade about the children, and the second
about the school. For a minute or two Mrs, Robarts thought
that, perhaps, nothing was to be said about Lucy. If it pleased
Lady Lufton to be silent, she, at least, would not commence
the subject. Then there was a word or two spoken about Mrs.
Podgens’ baby, after which Lady Lufton asked whether Fanny
were alone. “Yes,” said Mrs. Robarts. “Mark has gone
over to Barchestcr.”
“ I hope he will not be long before he lets me see him.
Perhaps he can call to-morrow. Would you both come and
dine to-morrow ? ”
“ Not to-morrow, I think, Lady Lufton ; but Mark, I am sure,
will go over and call.”
“ And why not come to dinner ? I hope there is to be no
change among us, eh, Fanny ? ” and Lady Lufton as she spoke
looked into the other’s face in a manner which almost made
Mrs. Robarts get up and throw herself on her old friend's
neck. Where was she to find a friend who would give her
such constant love as she had received from Lady Lufton?
\nd who was kinder, 'better, more honest than she ?
2ig6 Framley Parsonage
“ Change ! no, I hope not, Lady Lufton ; ” and as she spoke
the tears stood in her eyes.
“ Ah, but 1 shall think there is if you will not come to me as
you used to do. You always used to come and dine with me
the day I came home, as a matter of course.” What could she
say, T)Oor woman, to this?
“ We were all in confusion yesterday about poor Mrs.
Crawley, and the dean dined here; he had been over at
Hogglestock to see his friend.”
“ I have heard of her illness, and will go over and see what
ought to be done. Don't you go, do you hear, Fanny? You
with your young children ! I should never forgive you if you
did.” And then Mrs. Kobarts explained how Lucy had gone
there, had sent the four children back to Framley, and was
herself now staying at Mogglestock with the object of nursing
Mrs. Crawley. In telling the story she abstained from praising
Lucy with all the strong language which she would have used
had not Lucy’s name and character been at the present
moment of peculiar import to Lady Lufton ; but nevertheless
she could not tell it without dwelling much on Lucy’s kindness.
It would have i-een ungenerous to Lady Lufton to make much
of Lucy’s virtue at this present moment, but unjust to Lucy to
make nothing of it.
“ And she is actually with Mrs. Crawley now ? ” asked Lady
Luftoft,
“ Oh, yes ; Mark left her there yesterday afternoon.”
“ And the four children are all here in the house ?”
“Not exactly in the house— th,it is, not as yet. We have
arranged a sort of quarantine hospital over the coach-house.”
“ What, where Stubbs lives?”
“Yes; Still )bs and his wife have come into the house, and
the children are to remain up there till the doctor says
that there is no danger of infection. I h.ave not even seen my
visitors myself as yet,” said Mrs. Robarts with a slight laugh.
“ Dear me ! ” said Lady Lufton. “ I declare you have been
very prompt. And so Miss Robarts is over there ! I should
have thought Mr. Crawley would have made a difficulty about
the children.”
“Well, he did; out they kidnapped them — that is, Lucy
and Mark did. The dean gave me such an account ot it.
Lucy brought them out by two’s and packed them in the pony-
carriage, and then Mark drove off at a gallop while Mr. Crawley
stood calling to them in the road. The dean was there at the
time and saw it all.”
Don Quixote 397
“That Miss Lucy of yours seems to be a very determiiiecl
young lady when she takes a thing into her hoad,’^ said Laiiy
Lufton, now sitting down for the first time.
“ Yes, she is,** said Mrs. Robarts, having laid aside all her
pleasant animation, for the discussion which she dreaded was
now at hand.
“ A very determined young lady,” continued T.ady Lufton.
“Of comse, my dear Fanny, you know all this about Ludovic
and your sister-in-law ? **
“ Yes, she has told me about it.”
“ It is very unfortunate — very.”
“ I do not think Lucy has been to blame,” said Mrs.
Robarts ; and as she spoke the blood was already mounting io
her cheeks.
“ Do not be too ar^'ious to defend her, my dear, before any
one accuses her. Whenever a person does that it Ujoks as
though their cause were weak.”
“ But my cause is not weak as far as Lucy is concerned ; 1
feel quite sure that she has not been to blame.”
“ I know how obstinate you can be, Fanny, when you think
it necessary to dub yourself any one’s champion. Don Quixote
was not a better knight-errant than you are. But is it not. a
pity to take up your lance and shield before an enemy is within
sight or hearing? But that was ever the way with your Don
Quixotes.”
“Perhaps there maybe an enemy in ambush.” That was
Mrs. Robarts’ thought to herself, but she did not dare to
express it, so she remained silent.
“ My only hope is,” continued Lady Lufton, “that when my
back is turned you fight as gallantly for me.”
“Ah, you are never under a cloud, like poor Taicy.”
“Am I not? But, Fanny, you do not see all the clouds.
The sun does not always shine for any of us, and the down-
pouring rain and the heavy wind scalier also my fairest flowers
— ^as they have done hers, poor girl. Dear Fanny, I hope ii
may be long before any cloud comes across the brightness of
your heaven. Of all the creatures I know you are the one
most fitted for quiet continued sunshine.” And then Mrs.
Robarts did get up and embrace her friend, thus hiding the
tears which were running down her face. Continued sunshine,
indeed! A dark spot had already gathered on her horizon,
which was likely to fall in a very waterspout of rain. What
was to come of that terrible notice which was now lying in the
desk under Lady Luflon’s very arm ?
398 Framley Parsonage
“ But 1 am not come here to croak like an old raven,**
continued Lady Lufton, when she had brought this embrace to
an end. “It is probable that we all may have our sorrows ;
but 1 am quite sure of this, — that if we endeavour to do our
duties honestly, we shall all find our consolation and all have
our joys also. And now, my dear, let you and I say a few
words about this unfortunate affair. It would not be natural if
we were to hold our tongues to each other ; would it ? **
“ I suppose not,** said Mrs. Robarts.
“ We should always be conceiving worse than the truth —
each as to the other’s thoughts. Now\ some time ago, when I
spoke to you about your sister-in-law and Ludovic — I daresay
you remember **
“Oh, yes, I remember.**
“We both thought then that there would really be no
danger. To tell you the plain truth I fancied, and indeed
hoped, that his affections were engaged elsewhere ; but I was
altogether wrong then; wrong in thinking it, and wrong in
hoping it.** Mrs. Robarts knew well that Lady Lufton was
alluding to Griselda Grantly, but she conceived that it would
be discreet to say nothing herself on that subject at present.
She remembered, however, Lucy’s flashing eye when the
possibility of Lord Lufton making such a marriage was spoken
of in the pony-carriage, and could not but feel glad that Lady
Luftoiv had been disappointed.
“ I do not at all impute any blame to Miss Robarts for
what has occurred since,** continued her ladyship. “ 1 wish
you to distinctly understand that.**
“ I do not see how any one could blame her. She has
behaved so nobly.**
“ It is of no use inquiring whether any one can. It is
sufficient that I do not.**
“But I think that is hardly sufficient,** said Mrs. Robarts,
pertinaciously.
“ Is it not ? ** asked her ladyship, raising her eyebrows.
“ No. Only think what Lucy has done and is doing. If she
had chosen to say that she would accept your son I really do
not know how you could have justly blamed her. I do not by
any means say that I would have advised such a thing.**
“ I am glad of that, Fanny.**
“ I have not given any advice ; nor is it needed. I know
no one more able than Lucy to see clearly, by her own judg-
^.nent, what course she ought to pursue. I should be afraid to
jMvisc one whose mind is so strong, and who, of her own
Don Quixote 399
nature, is so self-denying as she is. She is sacrificing herself
now, because she will not be the means of bringing trouble
and dissension between you and your son. If you ask me,
Lady Lufton, I think you owe her a deep debt of gratitude. I
do, indeed. And as for blaming her— wliat has she done that
you possibly could blame ? ”
“ Don Quixote on horseback I” said Lady Lufton. “ Fanny,
I shall al.vays call you Don Quixote, and some day or other 1
will get somebody to write your adventures. But the truth is
this, my dear ; there has been imprudence. You may call it
mine, if you will — though I really hardly see how I am to take
the blame. I could not do other than ask Miss Robarts to
my house, and I could not very well turn my son out of it. In
point of fact, it has been the old story.”
“Exactly; the story that is as old as the world, and which
will continue as long as people are born into it. It is a story
of God*s own telling ! ”
“But, my dear child, you do not mean that every young
gentleman and every young lady should fall in love with each
other directly they meet ! Such a doctrine would be very
inconvenient.”
“ No, I do not mean that. Lord Lufton and Miss Grantly
did not fall in love with each other, though you meant them to
do so. But was it not quite as natural that Lord Lufton and
Lucy should do so instead ? ”
“It is generally thought, Fanny, that young ladies should
not give loose to their affections until they have been certified
of their friends’ approval.”
“ And that young gentlemen of fortune may amuse them-
selves as they please ! I know that is what the world teaches,
but I cannot agree to the justice of it. The terrible suffering
which Lucy has to endure makes me cry out against it. She
did not seek your son. The moment she began to suspect
that there might be danger she avoided him scrupulously. She
would not go down to Framley Court, though her not doing so
was remarked by yourself. She would hardly go out about the
place lest she should meet him. She was contented to put
herself altogether in the background till he should have pleased
to leave the place. But he — he came to her here, and insisted
on' seeing her. He found her when 1 was out, and declared
himself determined to speak to her. What was she to do ? She
did try to escape, but he stopped her at the door. Was it her
fault that he made her an offer ? ”
“ My dear, no one has said so.”
400 Framley Parsonage
“ Yes, but you do say so when you tell me that young ladies
should not give play to their affections without permission. He
persisted in saying to her, here, all that it pleased him, though
she implored him to be silent. I cannot tell the words she
used, but she did implore him.”
“ I do not doubt that she behaved well.”
“ But he — he persisted, and begged her to accept his hand.
She refused him then. Lady Lufton — not as some girls do, with
a mock reserve, not intending to be taken at their words — but
steadily, and, God forgive her, untruly. Knowing what your
feelings would be, and knowing what the world would say, she
declared to him that he was indifferent to her. What more
could she do in your behalf?” And then Mrs. Robarts
paused.
“ I shall wait till you have done, Fanny.”
“You spoke of girls giving loose to their affections. She
did not do so. She went about her work exactly as she had
done before. She did not even speak to me of what had passed
— not then, at least. She determined that it should all be as
though it had never been. She had learned to love your son ;
but that was her misfortune, and she would get over it as she
might. Tidings came to us here that he was engaged, or about
to engage himself, to Miss Grantly.”
“ Those tidings were untrue.”
“ Yes, we know that now ; but she did not know it then. Of
course she could not but suffer ; but she suffered within her-
self.” Mrs. Robarts, as she said this, remembered the pony-
carriage and how Puck had been beaten. “She made no
complaint that he had ill-treated her — not even to herself.
She had thought it right to reject his offer ; and there, as far
as he was concerned, was to be an end of it.”
“ That would be a matter of course, I should suppose.”
“But it was not a matter of course. Lady Lufton. He
returned from London to Framley on purpose to repeat his
offer. He sent for her brother You talk of a young
lady waiting for her friends’ approval. In this matter who
would be Lucy’s friends ? ”
“You and Mr. Robarts, of course.”
“Exactly; her only friends. Well, Lord Lufton sent for
Mark and repeated his offer to him. Mind you, Mark had
never heard a word of this before, and you may guess whether
or no he was surprised. Lord Lufton repeated his offer in the
most formal manner, and claimed permission to see Lucy.
She refused to see him. She has never 'seen him since that
Don Quixote 401
day when, in opposition to all her efforts, he made his way
into this room. Mark, — as I think very properly, — would
have allowed Lord Lufton to come up here. Looking at both
their ages and position he could have had no right to forbid it.
But Lucy positively refused to see your son, and sent him a
message instead, of the purport of which you are now aware —
that she would never accept him unless she did so at your
request.”
“ It was a very proper message.”
“ I say nothing about that. Had she accepted him I would
not have blamed her ; and so I told her, Lady Lufton.”
“I cannot understand your saying that, Fanny.”
“ Well ; I did say so. I don’t want to argue now about
myself, — whether I was right or wrong, but I did say so.
Whatever sanction 1 <.ouM give she would have had. But she
again chose to sacrifice herself, although I believe she regards
him with as true a love as ever a girl felt for a man. Upon
my word I don’t know that she is right. Those considerations
(or the world may perhaps be carried too far.”
“ I think that she was perfectly right.”
“ Very well, Lady Lufton ; I can understand that. But after
such sacrifice on her part — a sacrifice made entirely to you —
how can you talk of * not blaming her ? ’ Is that the language
in which you speak of those whose conduct from first to last
has been superlatively excellent ? If she is open to blame at
all, it is — it is ” But here Mrs. Robarts stopped herself.
In defending her sister she had worked herself almost into a
passion ; but such a state of feeling was not customary to her,
and now that she had spoken her mind she sank suddenly into
silence.
“It seems to me, Fanny, that you almost regret Miss
Robarts’ decision,” said Lady Lufton.
“ My wish in this matter is for her happiness, and I regret
anything that may mar it.”
“ You think nothing then of our welfare, and yet I do not
know to whom I might have looked for hearty friendship and
for sympathy in difficulties, if not to you ? ” Poor Mrs. Robarts
was almost upset by this. A few months ago, before Lucy’s
arjival, she would have declared that the interests of Lady
Lufton’s family would have been paramount with her, after and
next to those of her own husband. And even now, it seemed
to argue so black an ingratitude on her part — this accusation
that she was indifferent to them ! From her childhood
upwards she had revered and loved Lady Lufton, and for years
402 Framley Parsonage
had taught herself to regard her as an epitome of all that was
good and gracious in woman. Lady Lufton’s theories of life
had been accepted by her as the right theories, and those
whom Lady Lufton had liked she had liked. But now it
seemed that all these ideas which it had taken a life to build
up were to be thrown to the ground, because she was bound
to defend a sister-in-law whom she had only known for the last
eight months. It was not that she regretted a word that
she had spoken on Lucy’s behalf. Chance had thrown her
and Lucy together, and, as Lucy was her sister, she should
receive from her a sister’s treatment. But she did not the less
feel how terrible would be the effect of any disseverance from
Lady Lufton. “ Oh, Lady Lufton,” she said, “ do not say that.”
“But, Fanny, dear, I must speak as I find. You were
talking about clouds just now, and do you think that all this is
not a cloud in my sky ? Ludovic tells me that he is attached
to Miss Robarts, and you tell me that she is attached to him ;
and I am called upon to decide between them. Her very act
obliges me to do so.”
“ Dear Lady Lufton,” said Mrs. Robarts, springing from her
seat. It seemed to her at the moment as though the whole
difficulty were to be solved by an act of grace on the part of
an old friend.
“ And yet I cannot approve of such a marriage,” said Lady
Luftonr. Mrs, Robarts returned to her seat saying nothing
further.
“ Is not that a cloud on one’s horizon ? ” continued her
ladyship. “ Do you think that I can be basking in the sun-
shine while I have such a weight upon my heart as that ?
Ludovic will soon be home, but instead of looking to his return
with pleasure I dread it. I would prefer that he should remain
in Norway. I would wish that he should stay away for
months. And, Fanny, it is a great addition to my misfortune
to feel that you do not sympathize with me.” Having said
this, in a slow, sorrowful, and severe tone. Lady Lufton got up
and took her departure. Of course Mrs. Robarts did not let
her go without assuring her that she did sympathize with her,
— did love her as she ever had loved her. But wounds cannot
be cured as easily as they may be inflicted, and Lady Lufton
went her way with much real sorrow at her heart. She was
proud and masterful, fond of her own way, and much too
careful of the worldly dignities to which her lot had called her :
but she was a woman who could cause no sorrow to those she
loved without deep sorrow to herself.
Touching Pitch 403
CHAPTER XLII
TOUCHING PITCH
In these hot midsummer days, the end of June and the
beginning of July, Mr. Sowerby had but an uneasy time of it.
At his sister’s instance, he had hurried up to I.ondon, and
there had remained for days in attendance on the lawyers. He
had to see new lawyers, Miss Dunstable’s men of business,
quiet old cautious gentlemen whose place of business was
in a dark ally behind the Bank, Messrs. Slow and Bidea-
while by name, who had no scruple in detaining him for
hours while they or their clerks talked to him about
anything or about nothing. It was of vital consequence to
Mr. Sowerby that this business of his should be settled without
delay, and yet these men, to whose care this settling was now
confided, went on as though law processes were a sunny bank
on which it delighted men to bask easily. And then, too, he
had to go more than once to South Audley Street, which was a
worse infliction ; for the men m South Audley Street were less
civil now than had been their wont. It was well understood
there that Mr. Sowerby was no longer a client of the duke’s,
but his opponent ; no longer his nominee and dependant,
but his enemy in the county. “ Chaldicotes,” as old Mr.
Gumption remarked to young Mr. Gagebee ; “ Chaldicotes,
Gagebee, is a cooked goose, as far as Sowerby is concerned.
And what difference could it make to him whether the duke is
to own it or Miss Dunstable ? For my part I cannot under-
stand how a gentleman like Sowerby can like to see his pro-
perty go into the hands of a gallipot wench whose money still
smells of bad drugs. And nothing can be more ungrateful,”
he said, “ than Sowerby’s conduct. He has held the county
for five-and-twenty years without expense ; and now that the
time for payment has come he begrudges the price.” He
called it no better than cheating, he did not — he, Mr. Gumption.
According to his ideas Sowerby was attempting to cheat the
duke. It may be imagined, therefore, that Mr. Sowerby did
not feel any very great delight in attending at South Audley
Street. And then rumour was spread about among all the
bill-discounting leeches that blood was once more to be sucked
from the Sowerby carcase. The rich Miss Dunstable had taken
up his affairs ; so much as that became known in the purlieus
of the Goat and Compasses. Tom Tozer’s brother declared
that she and Sowerby were going to make a match of it, and
404 Framley Parsonage
that any scrap of paper with Sowerby’s name on it would
become worth its weight in bank-notes; but Tom Tozer
himself —'Fom, who was the real hero of the family — pooh-
poohed at this, screwing up his nose, and alluding in most
contemptuous terms to his brother’s softness. He knew better
— as was indeed the fact. Miss Dunstable was buying up the
squire, and by jingo she should buy them up — them, the
Tozers, as well as others 1 They knew their value, the Tozers
did ; — whereupon they became more than ordinarily active.
From them and all their brethren Mr. Sowerby at this time
endeavoured to keep his distance, but his endeavours were
not altogether effectual. Whenever he could escape for a day
or two from the lawyers he ran down to Chaldicotes ; but
Tom Tozer in his perseverance followed him there, and boldly
sent in his name by the servant at the front door.
“ Mr. Sowerby is not just at home at the present moment,”
said the well-trained doinestic.
”1*11 wait about then,** said Tom, seating himself on an
heraldic stone griffin which flanked the big stone steps before
the house. And in this way Mr. Tozer gained his purpose.
Sowerby was still contesting the county, and it behoved him
not to let his enemies say that he was hiding himself. It had
been a part of his bargain with Miss Dunstable that he should
contest the county. She had taken it into her head that the
duke had behaved badly, and she had resolved that he should
be made to pay for it. “The duke,** she said, “ had meddled
long enough ; ** she would now see whether the Chaldicotes
interest would not suffice of itself to return a member for the
county, even in opposition to the duke. Mr. Sowerby himself
was so harassed at the time, that he would have given way on
this point if he had had the power ; but Miss Dunstable was
determined, and he was obliged to yield to her. In this
manner Mr. Tom Tozer succeeded and did make his way into
Mr. Sowerby*s presence — of which intrusion one effect was
the following letter from Mr. Sowerby to his friend Mark
Robarts ; —
Chaldicotes, July, 185 — .
“ My dear Robarts, — I am so harassed at the present
moment by an infinity of troubles of my own that I am almost
callous to those of other people. They say that prosperity
makes a man selfish. I have never tried that, but I am quite
sure that adversity does so. Nevertheless I am anxious about
those bills of yours **—
Touching Pitch 405
Bills of mine 1 ” said Robarts to himself, as he walked up
and down the shrubbery path at the parsonage, reading this
letter. This happened a day or two after his visit to the
lawyer at Barchester.
“ and would rejoice greatly if I thought that I could save
you from any further annoyance about them. ''I hat kite, Tom
Tozer, has just been with me, and insists that both of them
shall be paid. He knows — no one better — that no considera-
tion was given for the latter. But he knows also that the
dealing was not with him, nor even with his brother, and he
will be prepared to swear that he gave value for both. He
would swear anything for five hundred pounds — or for half the
money, for that matter. I do not think that the father of
mischief ever let loose upon the world a greater rascal than
Tom Tozer.
*'He declares that nothing shall induce him to take one
shilling less than the whole sum of nine hundred pounds.
He has been brought to this by hearing that my debts arc
about to be paid. Heaven help me I The meaning of that
is that these wretched acres, which are now mortgaged to
one millionaire, are to change hands and be mortgaged to
another instead. By this exchange I may possibly obtain
the benefit of having a house to live in for the next twelve
months, but no other. Tozer, however, is altogether wrong
in his scent; and the worst of it is that his malice will fall on
you rather than on me.
“ What I want you to do is this : let us pay him one
hundred pounds between us. Though I sell the last sorry
jade of a horse I have, I will make up fifty ; and I know you
can, at any rate, do as much as that. Then do you accept a
bill, conjointly with me, for eight hundred. It shall be done
in Forrest’s presence, and handed to him; and you shall
receive back the two old bills into your own hands at the
same time. 'I'his new bill should be timed to run ninety
days; and 1 will move heaven and earth, during that time,
to have it included in the general schedule of my debts which
are to be secured on the Chaldicotes property.”
The meaning of this was that Miss Dunstable was to be
cozened into paying the money under an idea that it was a
part of the sum covered by the existing mortgage.
” What you said the other day at Barchester, as to never
4o 6 Framley Parsonage
executing another bill, is very well as regards future trans-
actions. Nothing can be wiser than such a resolution. But
it would be folly — worse than folly — if you were to allow your
furniture to be seized when the means of preventing it are so
ready to your hand. By leaving the new bill in Forrest’s
hands you may be sure that you are safe from the claws of
such birds of prey as these Tozers. Even if I cannot get it
settled when the three months are over, Forrest will enable
you to make any arrangement that may be most convenient.
“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow, do not refuse this.
You can hardly conceive how it weighs upon me, this fear
that bailiffs should make their way into your wife’s drawing-
room. I know you think ill of me, and I do not wonder at it.
But you would be less inclined to do so if you knew how
terribly I am punished. Pray let me hear that you will do
as I counsel you.
“Yours always faithfully,
“ N. SOWERPY.”
In answer to which the parson wrote a very short reply : —
“ Framley, July, 185 — .
“ My dear Sowerby, — I will sign no more bills on any
consideration,
“ Yours truly,
“Mark Robaris.”
And then having written this, and having shown it to his
wife, he returned to the shrubbery walk and paced it up and
down, looking every now and then to Sowerby’s letter as he
thought over all the past circumstances of his friendship with
that gentleman. That the man who had written this letter
should be his friend — that very fact was a disgrace to him.
Sowerby so well knew himself and his own reputation, that he
did not dare to suppose that his own word would be taken for
anything, — not even when the thing promised was an act of
the commonest honesty. “ The old bills shall be given back
into your own hands,” he had declared with energy, knowing
that his friend and correspondent would not feel himself
secure against further fraud under less stringent guarantee.
This gentleman, this county member, the owner of Chaldi-
cotes, with whom Mark Robarts had been so anxious to be
on terms of intimacy, had now come to such a phase of life
that he had given over speaking of himself as an honest man.
He had become so used to suspicion that he argued of it as of
Touching Pitch 407
i(>'thing of course. He knew that no one could trust either his
spoken or his written word, and he was content to speak and
to write without attempt to hide this conviction. And this
was the man whom he had been so glad to call his friend;
for whose sake he had been willing to quarrel with Lady
Lufton, and at whose instance he had unconsciously aban-
doned so many of the best resolutions of his life. He looked
back now, as he walked there slowly, still holding the letter in
his hand, to the day when he had stopped at the school-house
and written his letter to Mr. Sowerby, promising to join the
party at Chaldicotes. He had been so eager then to have his
own way, that he would not permit himself to go home and
talk the matter over with his wife. He thought also of the
manner in which he had been tempted to the house of the
Duke of Omnium, and the conviction on his mind at the time
that his giving way to that temptation would surely bring him
to evil. And then he remembered the evening in Sowerby's
bedroom, when the bill had been brought out, and he had
allowed himself to be persuaded to put his name upon it ; —
not because he was willing in this way to assist his friend, but
because he was unable to refuse. He had lacked the courage
to say “ No,” though he knew at the time how gross was the
error which he was committing. He had lacked the courage
to say **No,” and hence had come upon him and on his
household all this misery and cause for bitter repentance.
I have written much of clergymen, but in doing so I have
endeavoured to portray them as they bear on our social life
rather than to describe the mode and working of their pro-
fessional careers. Had I done the latter I could hardly have
steered clear of subjects on which it has not been my intention
to pronounce an opinion, and I should either have laden my
fiction with sermons or 1 should have degraded my sermons
into fiction. Therefore I have said but little in my narrative
of this man’s feelings or doings as a clergyman. But I must
protest against its being on this account considered that Mr.
Robarts was indifferent to the duties of his clerical position.
He had been fond of pleasure and had given way to tempta-
tion, — as is so customarily done by young men of six-and-
twenty, who are placed beyond control and who have means
at command. Had he remained as a curate till that age,
subject in all his movements to the eye of a superior, he
would, we may say, have put his name to no bills, have ridden
after no hounds, have seen nothing of the iniquities of
Gatherum Castle. There are men of twenty-six as fit to
o
4o 8 Framley Parsonage
Stand alone as ever they will be — fit to be prime minister '
heads of schools, judges on the bench — almost fit to b
bishops ; but Mark Robarts had not been one of them. He
had within him many aptitudes for good, but not the strength-
ened courage of a man to act up to them. The stuff of which
his manhood was to be formed had been slow of growth, as it
is with many men ; and, consequently, when temptation was
offered to him, he had fallen. But he deeply grieved over his
own stumbling, and from time to time, as his periods of
penitence came upon him, he resolved that he would once
more put his shoulder to the wheel as became one who fights
upon earth that battle for which he had put on the armour.
Over and over again did he think of those words of Mr.
Crawley, and now as he walked up and down the path,
crumpling Mr. Sowerby’s letter in his hand, he thought of
them again — “It is a terrible falling off; terrible in the fall,
but doubly terrible through that difficulty of returning.” Yes ;
that is a difficulty which multiplies itself in a fearful ratio as
one goes on pleasantly running down the path — whitherward ?
Had it come to that with him that he could not return — that
he could never again hold up his head with a safe conscience
as the pastor of his parish ! It was Sower by who had led him
into this misery, who had brought on him this ruin ? But
then bad not Sowerby paid him? Had not that stall which
he now held in Barchester been Sowerby’s gift ? He was a
poor man now — a distressed, poverty-stricken man ; but never-
theless he wished with all his heart that he had never become a
sharer in the good things of the Barchester chapter. “ I shall
resign the stall,” he said to his wife that night. “ I think I
may say that I have made up my mind as to that.”
“ But, Mark, will not people say that it is odd ? ”
“I cannot help it — they must say it. Fanny, I fear
that we shall have to bear the saying of harder words than
that.”
“ Nobody can ever say that you have done anything that is
unjust or dishonourable. If there are such men as Mr.
Sowerby ”
“ The blackness of his fault will not excuse mine.” And
then again he sat silent, hiding his eyes, while his wife, sitting
by him, held his hand.
“Don’t make yourself wretched, Mark. Matters will all
come right yet. It cannot be that the loss of a few hundred
pounds should ruin you.”
“ It is not the money — ^it is not the money 1 ”
Touching Pitch 409
^ •• But you have done nothing wrong, Mark.”
How am I to go into the church, and take my place before
,,iiem all, when every one will know that bailiffs are in the
house ? ” And then, dropping his head on to the table, he
sobbed aloud.
Mark Robarts’ mistake had been mainly this, — he had
thought to touch pitch and not to be defiled. He, looking
out from his pleasant parsonage into the pleasant upper ranks
of the world around him, had seen that men and things in
those quarters were very engaging. His own parsonage, with
his sweet wife, were exceedingly dear to him, and Lady Lufton's
affectionate friendship had its value ; but were not these things
rather dull for one who had lived in the best sets at Harrow
and Oxford ; — unless, indeed, he could supplement them with
some occasional buists of more lively life? Cakes and ale
were as pleasant to his palate as to the palates of those with
whom he had formerly lived at college. He had the same eye
to look at a horse, and the same heart to make him go across
a country, as they. And then, too, he found that men liked
him, — men and women also ; men and women who were high
in worldly standing. His ass’s ears were tickled, and he learned
to fancy that he was intended by nature for the society of high
people. It seemed as though he were following his appointed
course in meeting men and women of the world at the houses
of the fashionable and the rich. Pie was not the first clergy-
man that had so lived and had so prospered. Yes, clergymen
had so lived, and had done their duties in their sphere of life
altogether to the satisfaction of their countrymen — and of their
sovereigns. Thus Mark Robarts had determined that he would
touch pitch, and escape defilement if that were possible. With
what result those who have read so far will have perceived.
Late on the following afternoon who should drive up to the
parsonage door but Mr. P'orrest, the bank manager from
Barchester — Mr. Forrest, to whom Sowerby had always
pointed as the Deus ex machin& who, if duly invoked, could
relieve them all from their present troubles, and dismiss the
whole Tozer family — not howling into the wilderness, as one
would have wished to do with that brood of Tozers, but so
gorged with prey that from them no further annoyance need
be dreaded? All this Mr. Forrest could do ; nay, more, most
willingly would do 1 Only let Mark Robarts put himself into
the linker’s hand, and blandly sign what documents the
banker might desire. “ This is a very unpleasant affair,” said
Mr* Forrest as soon 'as they were closeted together in Mark’s
410 Framley Parsonage
book-room. In answer to which observation the parsoA
acknowledged that it was a very unpleasant affair.
“ Mr. Sowerby has managed to put you into the hands of
about the worst set of rogues now existing in their line of
business in London.*’
“ So I suppose ; Curling told me the same.” Curling was
the Barchester attorney whose aid he had lately invoked.
“ Curling has threatened them that he will expose their
whole trade ; but one of them who was down here, a man
named Tozer, replied, that you had much more to lose by
exposure than he had. He went further, and declared that
he would defy any jury in England to refuse him his money.
He swore that he discounted both bills in the regular way of
business ; and, though this is of course false, 1 fear that it will
be impossible to prove it so. He well knows that you are a
clergyman, and that, therefore, he has a stronger hold on you
than on other men.”
“ The disgrace shall fall on Sowerby,” said Robarts, hardly
actuated at the moment by any strong feeling of Christian
forgiveness.
“ I fear, Mr. Robarts, that he is somewhat in the condition
of the Tozers. He will not feel it as you will do.”
“ I must bear it, Mr. Forrest, as best I may.”
“ Will you allow me, Mr. Robarts, to give you my advice.
Perhaps I ought to apologize for intruding it upon you ; but
as the bills have been presented and dishonoured across
my counter, I have, of necessity, become acquainted wdth
the circumstances.”
*' 1 am sure 1 am very much obliged to you,” said
Mark.
“ You must pay this money, at any rate, the most consider-
able portion of it ; — the whole of it, indeed, with such deduction
as a lawyer may be able to induce these hawks to make on the
sight of the ready money. Perhaps 750/. or 800/. may see you
clear of the whole affair.”
“ But I have not a quarter of that sum lying by me.”
“ No, I suppose not ; but what I would recommend is this :
that you should borrow the money from the bank, on your own
responsibility, — ^with the joint security of some friend who may
be willing to assist you with his name. Lord Lufton probably
would do it.”
“No, Mr. Forrest ”
“ Listen to me first, before you make up your mind. If
you took this step, of course you would do so with the fixed
Touching Pitch 41 1
intention of paying the money yourself, — without any further
reliance on Sower by or on any one else.”
** I shall not rely on Mr. Sowerby again ; you may be sure
of that.”
“ What I mean is that you must teach yourself to recognize
the debt as your own. If you can do that, with your income
can you surely pay it, with interest, in two years. If Lord
Lufton will assist you with his name, I will so arrange the bills
that the payments shall be made to fall equally over that period.
In that way the world will know nothing about it, and in two
years* time you will once more be a free man. Many men,
Mr. Robarts, have bought their experience much dearer than
that, I can assure you.**
“ Mr. Forrest, it is quite out of the question.”
“You mean that Lord Lufton will not give you his
name.”
“ I certainly shall not ask him ; but that is not all. In the
first place, my income will not be what you think it, for I shall
probably give up the preben<l at Barchester.**
“ Give up the prebend ! give up six hundred a year I **
“And, beyond this, I think I may say that nothing shall
tempt me to put my name to another bill. I have learned a
lesson which I hope I may never forget.**
“ Then what do you intend to do ? **
“ Nothing I ”
“ Then those men will sell every stick of furniture about the
place. They know that your property here is enough to secure
all that they claim.**
“ If they have the power, they must sell it.**
“ And all the world will know the facts.”
“So it must be. Of the faults which a man commits he
must bear the punishment. If it were only myself ! **
“That*s where it is, Mr. Robarts. Think what your wife
will have to suffer in going through such misery as that ! You
had better take my advice. Lord Lufton, I am sure **
But the very name of Lord Lufton, his sister’s lover, again
gave him courage. He thought, too, of the accusations which
Lord Lufton had brought against him on that night, when he
had come to him in the coffee-room of the hotel, and he felt
that it was impossible that he should apply to him for such
aid. It would be better to tell all to Lady Lufton ! That she
would relieve him, let the cost to herself be what it might, he
was very sure. Only this ; — that in looking to her for assistance
he would be forced to bite the dust in very deed.
412 Framley Parsonage
“Thank you, Mr. Forrest, but I have made up my mind.
Do not think that I arn the less obliged to you for your dis-
interested kindness, — for I know that it is disinterested ; but
this I think I may confidently say, that not even to avert so
terrible a calamity will 1 again put my name to any bill. Even
if you could take my own promise to pay without the addition
of any second name, I would not do it” There was nothing
for Mr. Forrest to do under such circumstances but simply
to drive back to Barchester. He had done the best for the
young clergyman according to his lights, and perhaps, in a
worldly view, his advice had not been bad. But Mark
dreaded the very name of a bill. He was as a dog that had
been terribly scorched, and nothing should again induce him
to go near the hre.
“Was not that the man from the bank?” said Fanny,
coming into the room when the sound of the wheels had
died away.
“ Yes ; Mr. Forrest."
“ Well, dearest?”
“ We must prepare ourselves for the worst.”
“ You will not sign any more papers, eh, Mark ? ”
“ No; I have just now positively refused to do so.”
“ Then 1 can bear anything. But, dearest, dearest Mark,
will you not let me tell Lady Lufton ? ”
Let them look at the matter in any way the punishment was
very heavy.
CHAPTER XLIII
IS SHE NOT INSIGNIFICANT?
And now a month went by at Framley without any increase
of comfort to our friends there, and also without any absolute
development of the ruin which had been daily expected at the
parsonage. Sundry letters had reached Mr. Robarts from
various personages acting in the Tozer interest, all of which
he referred to Mr. Curling, of Barchester. Some of these
letters contained prayers for the money, pointing out how an
innocent widow lady had been induced to invest her all on the
faith of Mr. Robarts’ name, and was now starving in a garret,
with her three children, because Mr. Robarts would not make
good hiff own undertakings. But the majority of them were
filled with threats ; — only two days longer would be allowed,
and then the sheriff’s officers would be enjoined to do their
Is She not Insignificant? 413
work ; then one day of grace would be added, at the expiration
of which the dogs of war would be unloosed. These, as fast as
they came, were sent to Mr. Curling, who took no notice of
them individually, but continued his endeavour to prevent the
evil day. The second bill Mr. Robarts would take up — such
was Mr. Curling’s proposition ; and would pay by two instal-
ments of «5o/. each, the first in two months, and the second in
four. If this were acceptable to the Tozer interest — well ; if it
were not, the sheriffs officers must do their worst and the
Tozer interest must look for what it could get. The Tozer
interest would not declare itself satisfied with these terms, and
so the matter went on. During which the roses faded from
day to day on the cheeks of Mrs. Robarts, as under such
circumstances may easily be conceived. In the meantime
Lucy still remained at Hogglestock, and had there become
absolute mistress of the house. Poor Mrs. Crawley had been
at death’s door ; for some days she was delirious, and after-
wards remained so weak as to be almost unconscious ; but now
the worst was over, and Mr. Crawley had been informed, that
as far as human judgment might pronounce, his children would
not become orphans nor would he become a widower. During
these weeks Lucy had not once been home nor had she seen
any of the Framley people. “ Why should she incur the risk
of conveying infection for so small an object ? ” as she herself
argued, writing by letters, which were duly fumigated before
they were opened at the parsonage. So she remained at
Hogglestock, and the Crawley children, now admitted to all the
honours of the nursery, were kept at Framley. They were
kept at Framley, although it was expected from day to day that
the beds on which they lay would be seized for the payment of
Mr. Sowerby’s debts. Lucy, as I have said, became mistress of
the house at Hogglestock, and made herself absolutely ascendant
over Mr. Crawley. Jellies, and broth, and frui^ and even
butter, came from Lufton Court, which she displayed on the
table, absolutely on the cloth before him, and yet he bore it
I cannot say that he partook of these delicacies with any
freedom himself, but he did drink his tea when it was given to
him although it contained Framley cream ; — and, had he known
it,- Bohea itself from the Framley chest In truth, in these
days, he had given himself over to the dominion of this
stranger ; and he said nothing beyond, " Well, well,” with two
uplifted hands, when he came upon her as she was sewing the
buttons on to his own shirts — sewing on the buttons and
perhaps occasionally applying her needle elsewhere, — ^not
414 Framley Parsonage
without utility. He said to her at this period very little in the
way of thanks. Some protracted conversations they did have,
now and again, during the long evenings ; but even in these he
did not utter many words as to their present state of life. It
was on religion chiefly that he spoke, not lecturing her indi-
vidually, but laying down his ideas as to what the life of a
Christian should be, and especially what should be the life of a
minister. “ But though 1 can see this, Miss Robarts,” he said,
“ 1 am bound to say that no one has fallen off so frequently as
myself. I have renounced the devil and all his works ; but it
is by word of mouth only — by word of mouth only. How
shall a man crucify the old Adam that is within him, unless he
throw himself prostrate in the dust and acknowledge that all
his strength is weaker than water ? ** To this, often as it might
be repeated, she would listen patiently, comforting him by such
words as her theology would supply ; but then, when this was
over, she would again resume her command and enforce from
him a close obedience to her domestic behests.
At the end of the month Lord Lufton came back to
Framley Court. His arrival there was quite unexpected;
though, as he pointed out when his mother expressed some
surprise, he had returned exactly at the time named by him
before he started.
“ I need not say, Ludovic, how glad I am to have you,” said
she, looking to his face and pressing his arm ; “ the more so,
indeed, seeing that I hardly expected it.”
He said nothing to his mother about Lucy the first evening,
although there was some conversation respecting the Robarts
family.
** 1 am afraid Mr. Robarts has embarrassed himself,” said
Lady Lufton, looking very serious. “ Rumours reach me
which are most distressing. 1 have said nothing to anybody
as yet— not even to Fanny ; but I can see in her face, and hear
in the tones of her voice, that she is suffering some great sorrow.”
** I know all about it,” said Lord Lufton.
•• You know all about it, Ludovic ? ”
“ Yes ; it is through that precious friend of mine, Mr.
Sowerby, of Chaldicotes. He has accepted bills for Sowerby ;
indeed, he told me so.”
** What business had he at Chaldicotes ? What had he to
do with such friends as that ? 1 do not know how 1 am to
forgive him.”
‘*lt was through me that he became acquainted with
Sowerby. You must remember that, mother.”
Is She not Insignificant ? 415
I do not see that that is any excuse. Is he to consider
that all your acquaintances must necessarily be his friends also ?
It is reasonable to suppose that you in your position must live
occasionally with a great many people who are altogether unfit
companions for him as a parish clergyman. He will not
remember this, and he must be taught it. What business had
he to go to Gatherum Castle ? ”
“ He got his stall at Barchester by going there.”
He would be much better without his stall, and Fanny has
the sense to know this. What does he want with two houses ?
Prebendal stalls are for older men than he — for men who have
earned them, and who at the end of their lives want some ease.
1 wish with all my heart that he had never taken it.”
“ Six hundred a year has its charms all the same,” said
Lufton, getting up ar.d strolling out of the room.
“ If Mark really be in any difficulty,” he said, later in the
evening, “we must put him on his legs.”
“ You mean, pay his debts ? ”
“Yes; he has no debts except these acceptances of
Sowerby*s.”
“ How much will it be, Ludovic ? ”
“ A thousand pounds, perhaps, more or less. I’ll find the
money, mother ; only I shan’t be able to pay you quite as soon
as I intended.” Whereupon his mother got up, and throwing
her arms round his neck declared that she would never forgive
him if he ever said a word more about her little present to
him. 1 suppose there is no pleasure a mother can have more
attractive than giving away her money to an only son.
Lucy’s name was first mentioned at breakfast the next
morning. Lord Lufton had made up his mind to attack his
mother on the subject early in the morning — before he went
up to the parsonage ; but as matters turned out. Miss Robarts’
doings were necessarily brought under discussion without
reference to Lord Lufton’s special aspirations regarding her.
The fact of Mrs. Crawley’s illness had been mentioned, and
Lady Lufton had stated how it had come to pass that all the
Crawley children were at the parsonage.
“ I must say that Fanny has behaved excellently,” said Lady
Lufton. “ It was just what might have been expected from
her. And indeed,” she added, speaking in an embarrassed
tone, “ so has Miss Robarts. Miss Robarts has remained at
Hogglestock and nursed Mrs. Crawley through the whole.”
“ Remained at Hogglestock — through the fever 1 ” exclaimed
his lordship.
*n x8i
4i 6 Framley Parsonage
“ Yes, indeed,” said Lady Lufton.
“ And is she there now ? ”
“ Oh, yes ; I am not aware that she thinks of leaving just
yet.”
"Then I say that it is a great shame — a scandalous
shame ! ”
" But, Ludovic, it was her own doing.”
" Oh, yes, I understand. But why should she be sacrificed ?
Were there no nurses in the country to be hired, but that she
must go and remain there for a month at the bedside of a
pestilent fever ? There is no justice in it.”
" Justice, Ludovic ? I don’t know about justice, but there
was great Christian charity. Mrs. Crawley has probably owed
her life to Miss Robarts.”
" Has she been ill ? Is she ill ? I insist upon knowing
whether she is ill. I shall go over to Hogglestock myself
immediately after breakfast.” To this Lady Lufton made no
reply. If Lord Lufton chose to go to Hogglestock she could
not prevent him. She thought, however, that it would be
much better that he should stay away. He would be quite as
open to the infection as Lucy Robarts ; and, moreover, ^Irs.
Crawley’s bedside would be as inconvenient a place as might
be selected for an interview between two lovers, haidy Lufton
felt at the present moment that she was cruelly treated by
circumstances with reference to Miss Robarts. Of course it
would have been her part to lessen, if she could do so without
injustice, that high idea which her son entertained of the
beauty and worth of the young lady ; but, unfortunately, she
had been compelled to praise her and to load her name with
all manner of eulogy. Lady Lufton was essentially a true
woman, and not even with the object of carrying out her own
views in so important a matter would she be guilty of such
deception as she might have practised by simply holding her
tongue ; but nevertheless she could hardly reconcile herself to
the necessity of singing Lucy’s praises.
After breakfast Lady Lufton got up from her chair, but hung
about the room without making any show of leaving. In
accordance with her usual custom she would have asked her
son what he was going to do ; but she did not dare so to
inquire now. Had he not declared, only a few minutes since,
whither he would go ? "1 suppose 1 shall see you at lunch ? ”
at last she said.
" At lunch ? Well, I don’t know. Look here, mother.
What am I to say to Miss Robarts when 1 see her ? ” and he
Is She not Insignificant? 417
leaned with his back against the chimney-piece as he in-
terrogated his mother.
“ What are you to say to her, Ludovic ? ”
“ Yes, what am I to say, — as coming from you ? Am I to
tell her that you will receive her as your daughter-in-law ? ”
** Ludovic, I have explained all that to Miss Robarts
herself.”
“ Explained what ?”
** I have told her that I did not think that such a marriage
would make either you or her happy.”
“And why have you told her so? Why have you taken
upon yourself to judge for me in such a matter, as though I
were a child ? Mother, you must unsay what you have said.”
Lord Lufton, as he spoke, looked full into his mother’s face ;
and he did so, not as though he were begging from her a
favour, but issuing to her a command. She stood near him,
with one hand on the breakfast-table, gazing at him almost
furtively, not quite daring to meet the full view of his eye.
There was only one thing on earth which Lady Lufton feared,
and that was her son’s displeasure. The sun of her earthly
heaven shone upon her through the medium of his existence.
If she were driven to quarrel with him, as some ladies of her
acquaintance were driven to quarrel with their sons, the world
to her would be over. Not but what facts might be so strong
as to make it absolutely necessary that she should do this.
As some people resolve that, under certain circumstances,
they will commit suicide, so she could see that, under certain
circumstances, she must con.sent even to be separated from
him. She would not do wrong, — not that which she knew to
be wrong, — even for his sake. If it were necessary that all her
happiness should collapse and be crushed in ruin around her,
she must endure it, and wait God’s time to relieve her from so
dark a world. The light of the sun was very dear to her, but
even that might be purchased at too dear a cost.
** 1 told you before, mother, that my choice was made, and
I asked you then to give your consent; you have now had
time to think about it, and therefore I have come to ask you
again. I have reason to know that there will be no impedi-
ment to my marriage if you will frankly hold out your hand to
Lucy.”
The matter was altogether in Lady Lufton’s hands, but,
fond as she was of power, she absolutely wished that it were
not so. Had her son married without asking her, and then
brought Lucy home as his wife, she would undoubtedly have
4i 8 Framley Parsonage
forgiven him; and much as she might have disliked the
match, she would, ultimately, have embraced the bride. But
now she was compelled to exercise her judgment. If he
married imprudently, it would be her doing. How was she to
give her expressed consent to that which she believed to be
wrong ? “ Do you know anything against her ; any reason
why she should not be my wife ? ” continued he.
“ If you mean as regards her moral conduct, certainly not,”
said Lady Lufton. ‘*But I could say as much as that in
favour of a great many young ladies whom I should regard as
very ill suited for such a marriage.”
“ Yes ; some might be vulgar, some might be ill-tempered,
some might be ugly ; others might be burdened with disagree-
able connections. I can understand that you should object to
a daughter-indaw under any of these circumstances. But
none of these things can be said of Miss Robarts. I defy
you to say that she is not in all respects what a lady should be.”
But her father was a doctor of medicine, she is the sister of
the parish clergyman, she is only five feet two in height, and is
so uncommonly brown ! Had Lady Lufton dared to give a
catalogue of her objections, such would have been its extent
and nature. But she did not dare to do this.
** I cannot say, Ludovic, that she is possessed of all that you
should seek in a wife.” Such was her answer.
“ Do you mean that she has not got money ?”
“No, not that; I should be very sorry to see you making
money your chief object, or indeed any essential object. If it
chanced that your wife did have money, no doubt you would
find it a convenience. But pray understand me, Ludovic; 1
would not for a moment advise you to subject your happiness
to such a necessity as that. It is not because she is without
fortune ”
“Then why is it? At breakfast you were singing her
praises, and saying how excellent she is.”
“ If I were forced to put my objection into one word, I
should say ” and then she paused, hardly daring to en-
counter the frown which was already gathering itself on her
son’s brow.
“You would say what ? ” said Lord Lufton, almost roughly.
“ Don’t be angry with me, Ludovic ; all that I think, and all
that 1 say on this subject, 1 think and say with only one object
— that of your happiness. What other motive can I have for
anything in this world ? ” And then she came close to him
and kissed him.
Is She not Insignificant? 419
“ But tell me, mother, what is this objection ; what is this
terrible word that is to sum up the list of all poor Lucy’s sins,
and prove that she is unfit for married life ? ”
“ Ludovic, I did not say that. You know that I did not.”
“ What is the word, mother ? ”
And then at last Lady Lufton spoke it out. “ She is
insignificant. I believe her to be a very good girl, but she
is not qualified to fill the high position to which you would
exalt her.”
“ Insignificant 1 ”
“ Yes, Ludovic, I think so.”
“Then, mother, you do not know her. You must permit
me to say that you are talking of a girl whom you do not know.
Of all the epithets of opprobrium which the English language
could give you, that would be nearly the last which she would
deserve.”
“ I have not intended any opprobrium.”
“ Insignificant ! ”
“ Perhaps you do not quite understand me, Ludovic.”
“ I know what insignificant means, mother.”
“ 1 think that she would not worthily fill the position which
your wife should take in the world.”
“ I understand what you say.”
“She would not do you honour at the head of your table.”
“Ah, I understand. You want me to marry some bouncing
amazon, some pink and white giantess of fashion who would
frighten the little people into their proprieties.”
“ Oh, Ludovic ! you are intending to laugh at me now.”
“ I was never less inclined to laugh in my life — never, I can
assure you. And now I am more certain than ever that your
objection to Miss Kobarts arises from your not knowing her.
You will find, I think, when you do know her, that she is as
well able to hold her own as any lady of your acquaintance —
ay, and to maintain her husband’s position, too. 1 can assure
you that I shall have no fear of her on that score.”
“ I think, dearest, that perhaps you hardly ”
“ 1 think this, mother, that in such a matter as this I must
choose for myself. I have chosen; and now I ask you, as
my. mother, to go to her and bid her welcome. Dear mother,
1 will own this, that 1 should not be happy if 1 thought that
you did not love my wife.” These last words he said in a
tone of affection that went to his mother’s heart, and then he
left the room.
Poor Lady Luftonj when she was alone, waited till she heard
420 Framley Parsonage
her son’s steps retreating through the hall, and then betook
herself upstairs to her customary morning work. She sat
down at last as though about so to occupy herself ; but her
mind was too full to allow of her taking up her pen. She had
often said to herself, in days which to her were not as yet long
gone by, that she would choose a bride for her son, and that
then she would love the chosen one with all her heart. She
would dethrone herself in favour of this new queen, sinking
with joy into her dowager state, in order that her son’s wife
might shine with the greater splendour. The fondest day-
dreams of her life had all had reference to the time when her
son should bring home a new Lady Lufton, selected by herself
from the female excellence of England, and in which she might
be the first to worship her new idol. But could she dethrone
herself for Lucy Robarts? Could she give up her chair of
state in order to place thereon the little girl from the parsonage ?
Could she take to her heart, and treat with absolute loving
confidence, with the confidence of an almost idolatrous mother,
that little chit who, a few months since, had sat awkwardly in
one corner of her drawing-room, afraid to speak to any one ?
And yet it seemed that it must come to this — to this— or else
those day-dreams of hers would in nowise come to pass. She
sat herself down, trying to think whether it were possible that
Lucy might fill the throne ; for she had begun to recognize it
as probable that her son’s will would be too strong for her ;
but her thoughts would fly away to Griselda Grantly. In her
first and only matured attempt to realize her day-dreams, she
had chosen Griselda for her queen. She had failed there,
seeing that the Fates had destined Miss Grantly for another
throne ; for another and a higher one, as far as the world goes.
She would have made Griselda the wife of a baron, but fate
was about to make that young lady the wife of a marquis.
Was there cause of grief in this ? Did she really regret that
Miss Grantly, with all her virtues, should be made over to the
house of Hartletop ? Lady Lufton was a woman who did not
bear disappointment lightly ; but nevertheless she did almost
feel herself to have been relieved from a burden when she
thought of the termination of the Lufton-Grantly marriage
treaty. What if she had been successful, and, after all, the
prize had been other than she had expected ? She was some-
times prone to think that that prize was not exactly all that she
had once hoped. Griselda looked the very thing that Lady
Lufton wanted for a queen ; but how would a queen reign who
trusted only to her looks ? In that respect it was perhaps well
Is She not Insignificant? 421
for her that destiny had interposed. Griselda, she was driven
to admit, was better suited to Lord Dumbello than to her son.
But still such a queen as Lucy ! Could it ever come to
pass that the lieges of the kingdom would bow the knee in
proper respect before so puny a sovereign ? And then there
was that feeling which, in still higher quarters, prevents the
marriage of princes with the most noble of their people. Is it
not a recognized rule of these realms that none of the blood
royal shall raise to royal honours those of the subjects who arc
by birth un-royal ! Lucy was a subject of the house of Lufton
in that she was the sister of the parson and a resident denizen
of the parsonage. Presuming that Lucy herself might do for
queen — granting that she might have some faculty to reign,
the crown having been duly placed on her brow — how, then,
about that clerical brother near the throne? Would it not
come to this, that there would no longer be a queen at
Framley? And yet she knew that she must yield. She did
not say so to herself. She did not as yet acknowledge that
she must put out her hand to Lucy, calling her by name as
her daughter. She did not absolutely say as much to her own
heart — not as yet. But she did begin to bethink herself of
Lucy’s high qualities, and to declare to herself that the girl, if
not fit to be a queen, was at any rate fit to be a woman. That
there was a spirit within that body, insignificant though the
body might be. Lady Lufton was prepared to admit. That
she had acquired the power — ^the chief of all powers in this
world — of sacrificing herself for the sake of others ; that, too,
was evident enough. That she was a good girl, in the usual
acceptation of the word good, Lady Lufton had never doubted,
She was ready-witted, too, prompt in action, gifted with a
certain fire. It was that gift of fire which had won for her, so
unfortunately. Lord Lufton’s love. It was quite possible foi
her also to love Lucy Robarts; Lady Lufton admitted that
to herself ; but then who could bow the knee before her, and
serve her as a queen ? Was it not a pity that she should be
so insignificant ?
But, nevertheless, we may say that as Lady Lufton sate that
morning in her own room for two hours without employment,
the star of Lucy Robarts was gradually rising in the firmament.
After all, love was the food chiefly necessary for the nourish-
ment of Lady Lufton — the only food absolutely necessary. She
was not aware of this herself, nor probably would those who
knew her best have so spoken of her. They would have de-
clared that family pride was her daily pabulum, and she herself
422 Framley Parsonage
would have said so too, calling it, however, by some less offensive
name. Her son's honour, and the honour of her house ! — of
those she would have spoken as the things dearest to her in
this world. And this was partly true, for had her son been
dishonoured, she would have sunk with sorrow to the grave.
But the one thing necessary to her daily life was the power of
loving those who were near to her. Lord Lufton, when he left
the dining-room, intended at once to go up to the parsonage,
but he first strolled round the garden in order that he might
make up his mind what he would say there. He was angry
with his mother, having not had the wit to see that she was
about to give way and yield to him, and he was determined to
make it understood that in this matter he would have his own
way. He had learned that which was necessary that he should
know as to Lucy's heart, and such being the case he would not
conceive it possible that he should be debarred by his mother's
opposition. There is no son in England loves his mother
better than I do,” he said to himself ; “ but there are some
things which a man cannot stand. She would have married
me to that block of stone if I would have let her ; and now,
because she is disappointed there Insignificant ! 1 never
in my life heard anything so absurd, so untrue, so uncharitable,
so She'd like me to bring a dragon home, I suppose. It
would serve her right if I did — some creature that would make
the house intolerable to her.” “ She must do it though,” he
said again, “ or she and I will quarrel,” and then he turned off
towards the gate, preparing to go to the parsonage.
“ My lord, have you heard what has happened ? ” said the
gardener, coming to him at the gate. The man was out of
breath and almost overwhelmed by the greatness of his own
tidings.
“ No ; I have heard nothing. What is it ? ”
“The bailiffs have taken possession of everything at the
parsonage.”
CHAPTER XLIV
THE PHILISTINES AT THE PARSONAGE
It has been already told how things went on between the
Tozers, Mr. Curling, and Mark Robarts during that month.
Mr. Forrest had drifted out of the business altogether, as also
had Mr. Sowerby, as far as any active participation in it went.
Letters came frequently from Mr. Curling to the parsonage,
and at last came a message by special mission to say that the
The Philistines at the Parsonage 423
evil day was at hand. As far as Mr. Curling’s professional
experience would enable him to anticipate or foretell the
proceedings of such a man as Tom Tozer, he thought that the
sheriffs officers would be at Framley Parsonage on the
following morning. Mr. Curling’s experience did not mislead
him in this respect. “And what will you do, Mark?” said
Fanny, sp making through her tears, after she had read the
letter which her husband handed to her.
“ Nothing. What can I do ? They must come.”
“ Lord Lufton came to-day. Will you not go to him ? ”
“ No. If I were to do so it would be the same as asking
him for the money.”
“ Why not borrow it of him, dearest ? Surely it would not
be so much for him to lend.”
“ I could not do it. Think of Lucy, and how she stands
with him. Besides, I have already had words with Lufton
about Sowerby and his money matters. He thinks that I am
\o blame, and he would tell me so ; and then there would be
sharp things said between ' s. He would advance me the
money if I pressed for it, but he would do so in a way that
would make it impossible that I should take it.”
There was nothing more, then, to be said. If she had had
her own way Mrs. Robarts would have gone at once to Lady
Lufton, but she could not induce her husband to sanction such
a proceeding. The objection to seeking assistance from her
ladyship was as strong as that which prevailed as to her son.
There had already been some little beginning of ill-feeling,
and under such circumstances it was impossible to ask for
pecuniary assistance. Fanny, however, had a prophetic
assurance that assistance out of these difficulties must in the
end come to them from that quarter, or not come at all ; and
she would fain, had she been allowed, make everything known
at the big house. On the following morning they breakfasted
at the usual hour, but in great sadness. A maid-servant,
whom Mrs. Robarts had brought with her when she married,
told her that a rumour of what was to happen had reached the
kitchen. Stubbs, the groom, had been in Barchester on the
preceding day, and, according to his account — so said Mary
“everybody in the city was talking about it. “ Never mind,
Mary,” said Mrs. Robarts, and Mary replied, “ Oh, no, of
course not, ma’am.” In these days Mrs. Robarts was
ordinarily very busy, seeing that there were six children in the
house, four of whojm had come to her but ill supplied with
infantine belongings ; and now. as usual, she went about her
424 Framley Parsonage
work immediately after breakfast. But she moved about the
house very slowly, and was almost unable to give her orders to
the servants, and spoke sadly to the children, who hung about
her wondering what was the matter. Her husband at the same
time took himself to his book-room, but when there did not
attempt any employment. He thrust his hands into his
pockets, and, leaning against the fire-place, fixed his eyes upon
the table before him without looking at anything that was on
it; it was impossible for him to betake himself to his work,
Remember what is the ordinary labour of a clergyman in his
study, and think how fit he must have been for such employ-
ment ! What would have been the nature of a sermon composed
at such a moment, and with what satisfaction could he have
used the sacred volume in referring to it for his arguments ?
He, in this respect, was worse off than his wife ; she did
employ herself, but he stood there without moving, doing
nothing, with fixed eyes, thinking what men would say of him.
Luckily for him this state of suspense was not long, for within
half an hour of his leaving the breakfast-table, the footman
knocked at his door — that footman with whom, at the
beginning of his difficulties, he had made up his mind to
dispense, but who had been kept on because of the Barchester
prebend.
“ If you please, your reverence, there are two men oiithide,”
Mid the footman. Two men ! Mark knew well enough what
men they were, but he could hardly take the coming of two
such men to his quiet country parsonage quite as a matter of
course.
“Who are they, John?” said he, not wishing any answer,
but because the question was forced upon him.
“ I’m afeared they’re — bailiffs, sir.”
“Very well, John; that will do; of course they must do
what they please about the place.” And then, when the
servant left him, he still stood without moving, exactly as he
had stood before. There he remained for ten minutes, but
the time went by very slowly. When about noon some
circumstance told him what was the hour, he was surprised to
find that the day had not nearly passed away. And then
another tap was struck on the door — a sound which he well
recognized — and his wife crept silently into the room. She
came close up to him before she spoke, and put her arm
within his.
“ Mark,” she said, “ the men are here ; they are in the
yard.”
The Philistines at the Parsonage 425
“ I know it/’ he answered gruffly.
“ Will it be better that you should see them, dearest ? "
“ See them ; no ; what good can I do by seeing them ? But
I shall see them soon enough ; they will be here, I suppose, in
a few minutes.”
“ They are taking an inventory, cook says ; they are in the
stable now.”
“Very veil; they must do as they please; I cannot help
them.”
“ Cook says that if they are allowed their meals and some
beer, and if nobody takes anything away, they will be quite
civil.”
“ Civil 1 But what does it matter ? Let them eat and drink
what they please, as long as the food lasts. I don’t suppose the
butcher will send vou more.”
“ But, Mark, tliere’s nothing due to the butcher, — only the
regular monthly bill.”
“ Very well ; you’ll see.”
“ Oh, Mark, don’t look at me in that way. Do not turn
away from me. What is to comfort us if we do not cling to
each other now ? ”
“ Comfort us I God help you ! I wonder, Fanny, that you
can bear to stay in the room with me.”
“Mark, dearest Mark, my own dear, dearest husband! who
is to be true to you, if I am not ? You shall not turn from me.
How can anything like this make a difference between you and
me ? ” And then she threw her arms round his neck and
embraced him. It was a terrible morning to him, and one of
which every incident will dwell on his memory to the last day
of his life. He had been so proud in his position — had assumed
to himself so prominent a standing — had contrived, by some
trick which he had acquired, to carrry his head so high above
the heads of neighbouring parsons. It was this that had taken
him among great people, had introduced him to the Duke of
Omnium, had procured for him the stall at Barchester. But
how was he to carry his head now ? What would the Arabins and
Grantlys say ? How would the bishop sneer at him, and Mrs.
Froudie and her daughters tell of him in all their quarters ?
How would Crawley look at him — Crawley, who had already
once had him on the hip ? The stern severity of Crawley’s face
loomed upon him now. Crawley, with his children half naked,
and his wife a drudge, and himself half starved, had never had
a bailiff in his house at Hogglestock. And then his own curate,
Evans, whom he had patronized, and treated almost as a depend-
426 Framley Parsonage
ant — how was he to look his curate in the face and arrange with
him for the sacred duties of the next Sunday ? His wife still
stood by him, gazing into his face ; and as he looked at her and
thought of her misery, he could not control his heart with
reference to the wrongs which Sower by had heaped on him.
It was Sowerby's falsehood and Sowerby’s fraud which had
brought upon him and his wife this terrible anguish.
“ If there be justice on earth he will suffer for it yet,” he said
at last, not speaking intentionally to his wife, but anable to
repress his feelings.
“ Do not wish him evil, Mark ; you may be sure he has his
own sorrows.”
“ His own sorrows I No ; he is callous to such misery as
this. He has become so hardened in dishonesty that all this is
mirth to him. If there be punishment in heaven for false-
hood ”
“ Oh, Mark, do not curse him ! ”
“ How am I to keep myself from cursing when I see what
he has brought upon you ? ”
“ * Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,'” answered the young
wife, not with solemn, preaching accent, as though bent on
reproof, but with the softest whisper into his ear. “ Leave that
to Him, Mark ; and for us, let us pray that He may soften the
hearts of us all ; — of him who has caused us to suffer, and of
our owji.” Mark was not called upon to reply to this, for he
was again disturbed by a servant at the door. It was the cook
this time herself, who had come with a message from the men
of the law. And she had come, be it remembered, not from
any necessity that she as cook should do this line of work ; for
the footman, or Mrs. Robarts' maid, might have come as well as
she. But when things are out of course servants are always out
of course also. As a rule, nothing will induce a butler to go
into a stable, or persuade a housemaid to put her hand to a
frying-pan. But now that this new excitement had come upon
the household — seeing that the bailiffs were in possession, and
that the chattels were being entered in a catalogue, everybody
was willing to do everything — everything but his or her own
work. The gardener was looking after the dear children ; the
nurse was doing the rooms before the bailiffs should reach them ;
the groom had gone into the kitchen to get their lunch ready
for them ; and the cook was walking about with an inkstand,
obeying ^1 the orders of these great potentates. As far as the
servants were concerned, it may be a question whether the
coming of the bailiffs had not hitherto been regarded as a treat.
The Philistines at the Parsonage 427
“ If you please, ma*am,” said Jemima cook, “ they wishes to
know in which room you*d be pleased to have the inmin-tory
took fust. 'Cause, ma'am, they wouldn't disturb you nor master
more than can be avoided. For their line of life, ma'am, they
is very civil — very civil indeed."
“ 1 suppose they may go into the drawing-room," said Mrs.
Robarts, in a sad low voice. All nice women are proud of
their drawing-rooms, and she was very proud of hers. It had
been furnished when money was plenty with them, immediately
after their marriage, and everything in it was pretty, good, and
dear to her. O ladies, who have drawing-rooms in which the
things are pretty, good, and dear to you, think of what it would
be to have two bailiffs rummaging among them with pen and
ink-horn, making a catalogue preparatory to a sheriffs auction ;
and all without fault or extravagance of your own ! There were
things there that had been given to her by Lady Lufton, by
Lady Meredith, and other friends, and the idea did occur to
her that it might be possible to save them from contamination ;
but she would not say a word, lest by so saying she might add
to Mark's misery.
“And then the dining-room," said Jemima cook, in a tone
almost of elation.
“ Yes ; if they please,"
“ And then master's book-room here ; or perhaps the bed-
rooms, if you and master be still here."
“ Any way they please, cook ; it does not much signify," said
Mrs. Robarts. But for some days after that Jemima was by no
means a favourite with her.
The cook was hardly out of the room before a quick foot-
step was heard on the gravel before the window, and the hall
door was immediately opened.
“Where is your master?" said the well-known voice of
Lord Lufton ; and then in half a minute he also was in the
book-room.
“ Mark, my dear fellow^ what's all this ? " said he, in a
cheery tone and with a pleasant face. “ Did not you know
that 1 was here ? I came down yesterday ; landed from
Hamburg only yesterday morning. How do you do, Mrs.
Robarts ? This is a terrible bore, isn't it ? " Robarts, at
the first moment, hardly knew how to speak to his old friend.
He was struck dumb by the disgrace of his position ; the
more so as his misfortune was one which it was partly in
the power of Lord Lufton to remedy. He had never yet
borrowed money since he had filled a man's position, but he
428 Framley Parsonage
had had words about money with the young peer, in which
he knew that his friend had wronged him ; and for this double
reason he was now speechless.
“ Mr. Sowerby has betrayed him,” said Mrs. Robarts,
wiping the tears from her eyes. Plitherto she had said no
word against Sowerby, but now it was necessary to defend her
husband.
“ No doubt about it. I believe he has always betrayed
every one who has ever trusted him. 1 told you what he was,
some time since ; did I not ? But, Mark, why on earth have
you let it go so far as this ? Would not Forrest help you ? ”
“ Mr. Forrest wanted him to sign more bills, and he would
not do that,” said Mrs. Robarts, sobbing.
“ Bills are like dram-drinking,” said the discreet young lord :
“ when one once begins, it is very hard to leave off. Is it true
that the men are here now, Mark ? ”
“ Yes, they are in the next room.”
” What, in the drawing-room ? ”
‘‘They are making out a list of the things,” said Mrs.
Robarts.
** We must stop that at any rate,” said his lordship, walking
off towards the scene of the operations ; and as he left
the room Mrs. Robarts followed him, leaving her husband by
himself.
“Why did you not send down to my mother?” said he,
speaking hardly above a whisper, as they stood together in the
hall.
“ He would not let me.”
“ But why not go yourself? or why not have written to me, —
considering how intimate we are ? ” Mrs. Robarts could not
explain to him that the peculiar intimacy between him and
Lucy must have hindered her from doing so, even if other-
wise it might have been possible ; but she felt such was the
case.
“ Well, my men, this is bad work you’re doing here,” said
he, walking into the drawing-room. Whereupon the cook
curtseyed low, and the bailiffs, knowing his lordship, stopped
from their business and put their hands to their foreheads.
“ You must stop this, if you please, — at once. Come, let’s go
out into the kitchen, or some place outside. I don’t like to
see you here with your big boots and the pen and ink among
the furniture.”
“ We ain’t a-done no harm, my lord, so please your lordship,”
said Jemima cook.
The Philistines at the Parsonage 429
“ And we is only a-doing our bounden dooties,” said one of
the baililTs.
“ As we is sworn to do, so please your lordship,” said the
other.
“And is wery sorry to be unconwenicnt, my lord, to any
gen’leman or lady as is a gen'leman or lady. But accidents
will hapjv^n, and then what can the likes of us do ? ” said the
first.
“ Because we is sworn, my lord,” said the second. But,
nevertheless, in spite of their oaths, and in spite also of the
stern necessity which they pleaded, they ceased their operations
at the instance of the peer. For the name of a lord is still
great in England.
“ And now leave this, and let Mrs. Robarts go into her
drawing-room.”
“And, please your lordship, what is we to do? Who is we
to look to ? ” In satisfying them absolutely on this point Lord
Lufton had to use more than his influence as a peer. It was
necessary that he should have pen and paper. But with pen
and paper he did satisfy them ; — satisfy them so far that they
agreed to return to Stubb’s room, the former hospital, due
stipulation having been made for the meals and beer, and
there await the order to evacuate the premises which would no
doubt, under his lordship’s influence, reach them on the
following day. The meaning of all which was that Lord
Lufton had undertaken to bear upon his own shoulder the
wliole debt due by Mr. Robarts. And then he returned to the
book-room, where Mark was still standing almost on the same
spot in which he had placed himself immediately after break-
fast. Mrs. Robarts did not return, but went up among the
children to counter-order such directions as she had given for
the preparation of the nursery for the Philistines. “ Mark,”
he said, “ do not trouble yourself about this more than you
can help. The men have ceased doing anything, and they
shall leave the place to-morrow morning,”
“ And how will the money — be paid? ” said the poor clergy-
man.
“ Do not bother yourself about that at present. It shall so
be managed that the burden shall fall ultimately on yourself —
not on any one else. But 1 am sure it must be a comfort to
you to know that your wife need not be driven out of her
drawing-room.”
“ But, Lufton, I cannot allow you — after what has passed —
and at the present moment ”
430 Framley Parsonage
“ My dear fellow, I know all about it, and I am coming to
that just now. You have employed Curling, and he shall
settle it ; and upon my word, Mark, you shall pay the bill.
But, for the present emergency, the money is at my banker^s.”
“ But, Lufton ”
And to deal honestly, about Curling’s bill 1 mean, it ought
to be as much my affair as your own. It was I that brought
you into this mess with Sower by, and I know now how unjust
about it 1 was to you up in London. But the truth is that
Sowerby’s treachery had nearly driven me wild. It has done
the same to you since, 1 have no doubt.”
“ He has ruined me,” said Robarts.
" No, he has not done that. No thanks to him though ; he
would not have scrupled to do it had it come in his way. The
fact is, Mark, that you and I cannot conceive the depth of
fraud in such a man as that. He is always looking for money ;
I believe that in all his hours of most friendly intercourse, —
when he is sitting with you over your wine, and riding beside
you in the field, — he is still thinking how he can make use of
you to tide him over some difficulty. He has lived in that
way till he has a pleasure in cheating, and has become so
clever in his line of life that if you or I were with him again
to-morrow he would again get the better of us. He is a man
that must be absolutely avoided ; I, at any rate, have learned to
know so much.” In the expression of which opinion Lord
Lufton was too hard upon poor Sowerby ; as indeed we are all
apt to be too hard in forming an opinion upon the rogues of
the world. That Mr. Sowerby had been a rogue, 1 cannot
deny. It is roguish to lie, and he had been a great liar. It is
roguish to make promises which the promiser knows he can-
not perform, and such had been Mr. Sowerby’s daily practice.
It is roguish to live on other men s money, and Mr. Sowerby
had long been doing so. It is roguish, at least so I would
hold it, to deal willingly with rogues ; and Mr. Sowerby had
been constant in such dealings. I do not know whether he
had not at times fallen even into more palpable roguery than is
proved by such practices as those enumerated. Though I
have for him some tender feeling, knowing that there was still
a touch of gentle bearing round his heart, an abiding taste for
better things within him, I cannot acquit him from the great
accusation. But, for all that, in spite of his acknowledged
roguery; Lord Lufton was too hard upon him in his judgment
There was yet within him the means of repentance, could a
locus penitentiae have been supplied to ' him. He grieved
The Philistines at the Parsonage 431
bitterly over his own ill doings, and knew well what changes
gentlehood would have demanded from him. Whether or no
he had gone too far for all changes — whether the locus
penitentise was for him still a possibility — that was between
him and a higher power.
“I have no one to blame but myself,” said Mark, still
speaking in the same heart-broken tone and with his face
averted from his friend.
The debt would now be paid, and the bailiffs would be
expelled ; but that would not set him right before the world.
It would be known to all men — to all clergymen in the diocese,
that the sheriff’s officers had been in charge of Framley
Parsonage, and he could never again hold up his head in the
close of Barchester. ** My dear fellow, if we were all to make
ourselves miserable for such a trifle as this, — ” said Lord
Lufton, putting his arm affectionately on his friend’s shoulder.
“ But we are not all clergymen,” said Mark, and as he spoke
he turned away to the window, and Lord Lufton knew that the
tears were on his cheek.
Nothing was then said between them for some moments,
after which Lord Lufton again spoke, —
“ Mark, my dear fellow ! ”
“Well,” said Mark, with his face still turned towards the
window.
“You must remember one thing; in helping you over this
stile, which will be really a matter of no inconvenience to me,
I have a better right than that even of an old friend ; I look
upon you now as my brother-in-law.” Mark turned slowly
round, plainly showing the tears upon his face.
“Do you mean,” said he, “that anything more has taken
place ? ”
“ I mean to make your sister my wife ; she sent me word by
you to say that she loved me, and I am not going to stand
upon any nonsense after that. If she and I are both willing
no one alive has a right to stand between us, and, by heavens,
no one shall. I will do nothing secretly, so I tell you that,
exactly as I have told her ladyship.”
“ But what does she say ? ”
She says nothing ; but it cannot go on like that. My
mother and I cannot live here together if she opposes me in
this way. I do not want to frighten your sister by going over
to her at Hogglestock, but I expect you to tell her so much as I
now tell you, as coming from me ; otherwise she will think
that 1 have forgotten *her.”
432 Framley Parsonage
“ She will not think that.”
” She need not ; good-bye, old fellow. I’ll make it all right
between you and her ladyship about this affair of Sowerby’s.”
And then he took his leave and walked off to settle about the
payment of the money.
“ Mother,’* said he to Lady Lufton that evening, “ you
must not bring this affair of the bailiffs up against Robarts. It
has been more my fault than his.”
Hitherto not a word had been spoken between Lady Lufton
and her son on the subject. She had heard with terrible
dismay of what had happened, and had heard also that Lord
Lufton had immediately gone to the parsonage. It was
impossible, therefore, that she should now interfere. That the
necessary money would be forthcoming she was aware, but that
would not wipe out the terrible disgrace attached to an execu-
tion in a clergyman’s house. And then, too, he was her clergy-
man, — her own clergyman, selected and appointed, and brought
to Framley by herself, endowed with a wife of her own choosing,
filled with good things by her own hand 1 It was a terrible
misadventure, and she began to repent that she had ever heard
the name of Robarts. She would not, however, have been slow
to put forth the hand to lessen the evil by giving her own
money, had this been either necessary or possible. But how
could she interfere between Robarts and her son, especially
when she remembered the proposed connection between Lucy
and Lord Lufton ?
** Your fault, Ludovic ? ”
“Yes, mother. It was I who introduced him to Mr.
Sowerby ; and, to tell the truth, I do not think he would ever
have been intimate with Sowerby if I had not given him some
sort of a commission with reference to money matters then
pending between Mr. Sowerby and me. They are all over
now, — thanks to you, indeed.”
“ Mr. Robarts’ character as a clergyman should have kept
him from such troubles, if no other feeling did so.”
“At any rate, mother, oblige me by letting it pass by.”
“Oh, I shall say nothing to him.”
“ You had better say something to her, or otherwise it will
be strange ; and even to him I would say a word or two, — a
word in kindness, as you so well know how. It will be easier
to him in that way, than if you were to be altogether silent.”
No further conversation took place between them at the
time, but later in the evening she brushed her hand across
her son’s forehead, sweeping the long silken hairs into their
Palace Blessings 433
place, as she was wonl to do when moved by any special
feeling of love. “ Ludovic,” she said, “ no one, I think, has
so good a heart as you. 1 will do exactly as you would have
me about this affair of Mr. Robarts and the money.” And
then there was nothing more said about it.
CHAPTER XLV
PALACE BLESSINGS
And now, at this period, terrible rumours found their way
into Barchester, and dew about the cathedral towers and
round the cathedral door; ay, and into the canons’ houses
and the humbler sitting-rooms of the vicars choral. Whether
they made their way from thence up to the bishop’s palace, or
whether they descended from the palace to the close, I will
not pretend to say. But they were shocking, unnatural, and
no doubt grievous to all those excellent ecclesiastical hearts
which cluster so thickly in those quarters. The first of these
had reference to the new prebendary, and to the disgrace
which he had brought on tlio chapter ; a disgrace, as some
of them boasted, which Barchester had never known before.
This, however, like most other boasts, was hardly true; for
within but a very few years there had been an execution in
the house of a late prebendary, old Dr. Stanhope ; and on that
occasion the doctor himself had been forced to fiy away to
Italy, starting in the night, lest he also should fall into the
hands of the Philistines, as well as his chairs and tables. It
is a scandalous shame,” said Mrs. Proudie, speaking not of the
old doctor, but of the new offender ; a scandalous shame :
and it would only serve him right if the gown were stripped
from his back.”
‘*1 suppose his living will be sequestrated,” said a young
minor canon who attended much to the ecclesiastical injunc-
tions of the lady of the diocese, and was deservedly held in
high favour. If Framley were sequestrated, why should not
he, as well as another, undertake the duty — with such stipend
as the bishop might award ?
" I am told that he is over head and ears in debt,” said the
future Mrs. Tickler, and chiefly for horses which he has
bought and not paid for.”
see him riding very splendid animals when he comes
over for the cathedral duties,” said the minor canon.
'*The sheriffs officers are in the house at present, I am
told,” said Mrs. Proudie.
434 Framley Parsonage
“ And is not he in jail ? said Mrs. Tickler.
“ If not, he ought to be,” said Mrs. Tickler’s mother.
“ And no doubt soon will be,” said the minor canon ; “ for
1 hear that he is linked up with a most discreditable gang of
persons.”
This was what was said in the palace on that heading ; and
though, no doubt, more spirit and poetry was displayed there
than in the houses of the less gifted clergy, this shows the
manner in which the misfortune of Mr. Robarts war generally
discussed. Nor, indeed, had he deserved any better treatment
at their hands. But his name did not run the gauntlet for the
usual nine days ; nor, indeed, did his fame endure at its height
for more than two. This sudden fall was occasioned by other
tidings of a still more distressing nature ; by a rumour which
so affected Mrs. Proudie that it caused, as she said, her blood
to creep. And she was very careful that the blood of others
should creep also, if the blood of others was equally sensitive.
It was said that Lord Dumbello had jilted Miss Grantly. From
what adverse spot in the world these cruel tidings fell upon
Barchester I have never been able to discover. We know how
quickly rumour flies, making herself common through all the
cities. That Mrs. Proudie should have known more of the
facts connected with the Hartletop family than any one else in
Barchester was not surprising, seeing that she was so much
more -conversant with the great world in which such people
lived. She knew, and was therefore correct enough in declar-
ing, that Lord Dumbello had already jilted one other young
lady — the Lady Julia Mac Mull, to whom he had been engaged
three seasons back, and therefore his character in such matters
was not to be trusted. That Lady Julia had been a terrible
flirt and greatly given to waltzing with a certain German count,
with whom she had since gone off — that, I suppose, Mrs.
Proudie did not know, much as she was conversant with the
great world, — seeing that she said nothing about it to any of
her ecclesiastical listeners on the present occasion.
“ It will be a terrible warning, Mrs. Quiverful, to us all ; a
most useful warning to us — not to trust to the things of this
world. I fear they made no inquiry about this young noble-
man before they agreed that his name should be linked with
that of their daughter.” This she said to the wife of the
present warden of Hiram’s Hospital, a lady who had received
favours from her, and was therefore bound to listen attentively
to her voice
” But I hope it may not be true,” said Mrs. Quiverful, who,
Palace Blessings 435
in spite of the allegiance due by her to Mrs. Proudie, had
reasons of her own for wishing well to the Grantly family.
“ I hope so, indeed,** said Mrs. Proudie, with a slight tinge
of anger in her voice ; ** but 1 fear that there is no doubt.
And 1 must confess that it is no more than we had a right
to expect. 1 hope that it may be taken by all of us as a lesson,
and an ensample, and a teaching of the Lord’s mercy. And I
wish you would request your husband — from me, Mrs. Quiverful
— to dwell on this subject in morning and evening lecture at the
hospital on Sabbath next, showing how false is the trust which
we put in the good things of this world ; ** which behest, to a
certain extent, Mr. Quiverful did obey, feeling that a quiet life
in Barchester was of great value to him ; but he did not go so
far as to caution his hearers, who consisted of the aged bedes<
men of the hospital- against matrimonial projects of an ambitious
nature. In this case, as in all others of the kind, the report
was known to all the chapter before it had been heard by the
archdeacon or his wife. The dean heard it, and disregarded
it ; as did also the dean’s wife — at first ; and those who generally
sided with the Grantlys in the diocesan battles pooh-poohed
the tidings, saying to each other that both the archdeacon and
Mrs. Grantly were very well able to take care of their own
affairs. But dripping water hollows a stone ; and at last it was
admitted on all sides that there was ground for fear,— on all
sides, except at Plumstead.
“ I am sure there is nothing in it ; I really am sure of it,”
said Mrs. Arabin, whispering to her sister ; “ but after turning
It over in my mind, 1 thought it right to tell you. And yet I
don’t know now but I am wrong.”
“ Quite right, dearest Eleanor,” said Mrs. Grantly. “ And
I am much obliged to you. But we understand it, you know.
It comes, of course, like all other Christian blessings, from the
palace.” And then there was nothing more said about it
between Mrs. Grantly and her sister. But on the following
morning there arrived a letter by post, addressed to Mrs.
Grantly, bearing the postmark of Littlebath. The letter
ran : —
*' Madam, — It is known to the writer that Lord Dumbello
has arranged with certain friends how he may escape from his
present engagement. I think, therefore, that it is my duty as
a Christian to warn you of this.
“Vours truly,
" A Wkllwishbr.”
436 Framley Parsonage
Now it had happened that the embryo Mrs. Tickler’s most
intimate bosom friend and confidante was known at Plumstead
to live at Littlebath, and it had also happened — most unfor-
tunately — that the embryo Mrs. Tickler, in the warmth of her
neighbourly regard, had written a friendly line to her friend
Griselda Grantly, congratulating her with all female sincerity
on her splendid nuptials with the Lord Dumbello.
“ It is not her natural hand,” said Mrs. Grantly, talking the
matter over with her husband, but you may be sure it has
come from her. It is a part of the new Christianity which we
learn day by day from the palace teaching.” But these things
had some effect on the archdeacon’s mind. He had learned
lately the story of Lady Julia Mac Mull, and was not sure that
his son-in-law — as ought to be about to be — had been entirely
blameless in that matter. And then in these days Lord
Dumbello made no great sign. Immediately on Griselda’s
return to Plumstead he had sent her a magnificent present
of emeralds, which, however, had come to her direct from the
jewellers, and might have been — and probably was — ordered
by his man of business. Since that he had neither come, nor
sent, nor written. Griselda did not seem to be in any way
annoyed by this absence of the usual sign of love, and went on
steadily with her great duties. ** Nothing,” as she told her
mother, had been said about writing, and, therefore, she did
not expect it.” But the archdeacon was not quite at his ease.
Keep Dumbello up to his P’s and Q’s, you know,” a friend
of his had whispered to him at his club. By heavens, yes.
The archdeacon was not a man to bear with indifference a
wrong in such a quarter. In spite of his clerical profession,
few men were more inclined to fight against personal wrongs —
and few men more able.
” Can there be anything wrong, I wonder ? ” said he to his
wife. Is it worth while diat I should go up to London ? ”
But Mrs. Grantly attributed it all to the palace doctrine.
What could be more natural, looking at all the circumstances
of the Tickler engagement? She therefore gave her voice
against any steps being taken by the archdeacon. A day or
two after that Mrs. Proudie met Mrs. Arabin in the close and
condoled with her openly on the termination of the marriage
treaty ; — quite openly, for Mrs. Tickler — as she was to be — was
with her mother, and Mrs. Arabin was accompanied by her
sister-in-law, Mary Bold.
'*It ihust be very grievous to Mrs. Grantly, very grievous
indeed,” said Mrs. Proudie, *'and 1 sincerely feel for her.
Palace Blessings 437
But, Mrs. Arabin, all these lessons are sent to us for our eternal
welfare.”
**Of course,” said Mrs. Arabin. “But as to this special
lesson, 1 am inclined to doubt that it ”
“ Ah-h 1 1 fear it is too true. I fear there is no room for
doubt. Of course you are aware that Lord Dumbello is off
for the Continent.” Mrs. Arabin was not aware of it, and she
was obli(,ed to admit as much.
“ He started four days ago, by way of Boulogne,” said
Mrs. Tickler, who seemed to be very well up in the whole
affair. “ I arn so sorry for poor dear Griselda. I am told she
has got all her things. It is such a pity, you know.”
“ But why should not Lord Dumbello come back from the
Continent ? ” said Miss Bold, very quietly.
“ Why not, indeed ? I'm sure I hope he may,” said Mrs.
Proudie. “ And no doubt he will, some day. But if he be
such a man as they say he is, it is really well for Griselda that
she should be relieved from such a marriage. For, after all,
Mrs. Arabin, what are the things of this world ? — dust beneath
our feet, ashes between our teeth, grass cut for the oven,
vanity, vexation, and nothing more I ” — well pleased with
which variety of Christian metaphors Mrs. Proudie walked
on, still muttering, however, something about worms and
grubs, by which she intended to signify her own species and
the Dumbello and Grantly sects of it in particular. This now
had gone so far that Mrs. Arabin conceived herself bound in
duty to see her sister, and it was then settled in consultation
at Plum stead that the archdeacon should call officially at the
palace and beg that the rumour might be contradicted. This
he did early on the next morning and was shown into the
bishop’s study, in which he found both his lordship and Mrs.
Proudie. The bishop rose to greet him with special civility,
smiling his very sweetest on him, as though of all his clergy
the archdeacon were the favourite ; but Mrs. Proudie wore
something of a gloomy aspect, as though she knew that such
a visit at such an hour must have reference to some special
business. The morning calls made by the archdeacon at the
palace in the way of ordinary civility were not numerous. On
the present occasion he dashed at once into his subject. “ I
have called this morning, Mrs. Proudie,” said he, “because
I wish to ask a favour from you.” Whereupon Mrs. Proudie
bowed.
“ Mrs. Proudie will be most happy, I am sure,” said the
bishop.
438 Framley Parsonage
“I find that some foolish people have been talking in
Barchester about my daughter,” said the archdeacon ; and I
wish to ask Mrs. Proudie ”
Most women under such circumstances would have felt the
awkwardness of their situation, and would have prepared to
eat their past words with wry faces. But not so Mrs. Proudie.
Mrs. Grantly had had the imprudence to throw Mr. Slope in
her face — there, in her own drawing-room, and she was
resolved to be revenged. Mrs. Grantly, too, had ridiculed
the Tickler match, and no too great niceness should now
prevent Mrs. Proudie from speaking her mind about the
Dumbello match.
“ A great many people are talking about her, 1 am sorry to
say,” said Mrs. Proudie ; “ but, poor dear, it is not her fault.
It might have happened to any girl; only, perhaps, a little
more care — ; you’ll excuse me, Dr. Grantly.”
“1 have come here to allude to a report which has been
spread about in Barchester, that the match between Lord
Dumbello and my daughter has been broken off ; and ”
“ Everybody in Barchester knows it, I believe,” said Mrs.
Proudie.
“and,” continued the archdeacon, “to request that that
report may be contradicted.”
“ Contradicted ! Why, he has gone right away, — out of the
country.”
“Never mind where he has gone to, Mrs. Proudie; I beg
that the report may be contradicted.”
“You’ll have to go round to every house in Barchester
then,” said she.
“ By no means,” replied the archdeacon. “ And, perhaps,
it may be right that 1 should explain to the bishop that I
came here because ”
“ The bishop knows nothing about it,” said Mrs. Proudie.
“Nothing in the world,” said his lordship. “And 1 am
sure I hope that the young lady may not be disappointed.”
“ because the matter was so distinctly mentioned to
Mrs. Arabin by yourself yesterday.”
“ Distinctly mentioned ! Of course it was distinctly
mentioned. There are some things which can’t be kept
under a bushel. Dr. Grantly; and this seems to be one of
them. Your going about in this way won't make Lord
Dumb^lo marry the young lady.” That was true ; nor
would it make Mrs. Proudie hold her tongue. Perhaps the
archdeacon was wrong in his present errand, and so he now
Palace Blessings 439
began to bethink himself. “ At any rate,” said he, “ when I
tell yoto that there is no ground whatever for such a report you
will do me the kindness to say that, as far as you are con-
cerned, it shall go no further. I think, my lord, I am not
asking too much in asking that.”
“The bishop knows nothing about it,” said Mrs. Proudie
again.
“Nothing at all,” said the bishop.
“ And as I must protest that I believe the information
which has reached me on this head,” said Mrs. Proudie, “ I
do not see how it is possible that I should contradict it. I can
easily understand your feelings. Dr. Grantly. Considering
your daughter’s position the match was, as regards earthly
wealth, a very great one. I do not wonder that you should
be grieved at its beii.g broken off ; but I trust that this sorrow
may eventuate in a blessing to you and to Miss Griselda.
These worldly disappointments are precious balms, and I trust
you know how to accept them as such.” The fact was that
Dr. Grantly had done altogether wrong in coming to the
palace. His wife might have some chance with Mrs. Proudie,
but he had none. Since she had come to Barchester he had
had only two or three encounters with her, and in all of these
he had gone to the wall. His visits to the palace always
resulted in his leaving the presence of the inhabitants in a
frame of mind by no means desirable, and he now found that he
had to do so once again. He could not compel Mrs. Proudie
to say that the report was untrue ; nor could he condescend to
make counter hits at her about her own daughter, as his wife
would have done. And thus having utterly foiled, he got up
and to<jk his leave. But the worst of the matter was, that, in
going home, he could not divest his mind of the idea that
there might be some truth in the report. What if Lord
Dumbello had gone to the Continent resolved to send back
frofti thence some reason why it was impossible that he should
iiulke Miss Grantly his wife? Such things had been done
bdl)re now by men in his rank. Whether or no Mrs. Tickler
hs^ been the letter-writing wellwisher from Littlebath, or had
ihauced her friend to be so, it did seem manifest to him,
l^Grantly, that Mrs. Proudie absolutely believed the report
she promulgated so diligently. The wish might be
fi^Kr to the thought, no doubt; but that the thought was
t^p there. Dr. Grantly could not induce himself to disbelieve.
wife was less credulous, and to a certain degree com-
forted him ; but that evening he received a letter which
440 ^ramley Parsonage
greatly confirmed the suspicions set on foot by Mrs. Proudi*'
and even shook his wife’s faith in Lord Dumbello. It
from a mere acquaintance, who in the ordinary course
things would not have written to him. And the bulk of tf^
letter referred to ordinary things, as to which the gentleman i»
question would hardly have thought of giving himself th^
trouble to write a letter. But at the end of the note he said,- *
“Of course you are aware that Dumbello is ofl' to Paris; ’
have not heard whether the exact day of his return is fixed.”
“ It is true, then,” said the archdeacon, striking the librai^
table with his hand, and becoming absolutely white about th
mouth and jaws. ’
“ It cannot be,” said Mrs. Grantly ; but even she was no^
trembling. '.
“ If it be so ril drag him back to England by the collar,/^®
his coat, and disgrace him before the steps of his father’s
And the archdeacon as he uttered the threat looked
character as an irate British father much better than he did ^
other character as a clergyman of the Church of Engla >
The archdeacon had been greatly worsted by Mrs. Prou<^®
but he was a man who knew how to fight his battles amor ^
men — sometimes without too close a regard to his cloth.
“ Had Lord Dumbello intended any such thing he wo
have written, or got some friend to write by this time,” sa
Mrs. Grantly. “ It is quite possible that he might wish to
off, but he would be too chary of his name not to endeav »
to do so with decency.”
Thus the matter was discussed, and it appeared to ':er
both to be so serious that the archdeacon resolved to g
once to Ix)ndon. That Lord Dumbello had gone to Fran ps,
did not doubt ; but he would find some one in town acquai, I
with the young man’s intentions, and he would, no doubt
able to hear when his return was expected. If there werf,
reason for apprehension he would follow the runagate toam
Continent, but he would not do this without absolute k;d.”
ledge. According to Lord Dumbello’s present engagen to
he was bound to present himself in August next at Plum
Episcopi, with the view of then and there taking Gris:tly
Grantly in marriage ; but if he kept his word in this re.specept
one had a right to quarrel with him for going to Paris ii^ of
meantime. Most expectant bridegrooms would, no dfx>rd
under such circumstances, have declared their intentioanor
their future brides ; but if Lord Dumbello were different Ithe
others, who had a right on that account to be indignant
l.ady JLuiton's Request 441
i m ? He was unlike other men in other things ; and especially
hlike other men in being the eldest son of the Maicjuis of
i.artletop. It would be all very well for Tickler to proclaim
IS whereabouts from week to week ; but the eldest son of
marquis might find it inconvenient to be so precise ! Never-
heless the archdeacon thought it only prudent to go up to
•ondon. “Susan,” said the archdeacon to his wife, just as he
'as starting at this moment neither of theai were in tlie
ippiest spirits — “ 1 thii\k 1 would say a word of caution
j Griselda.”
“ Do you feel so much doubt ibout it as that ? ” said Mrs.
Irantly. But even she did not dare to put a direct negative
) this proposal, so much had she been moved by what she
ad heard !
“I think I would do so, not frightening her more than
t'.ould help. It w'M lessen the blow' if it be that the blow
cto fall ”
2“ It Will kill me,” said Mrs. Grantly ; “ but T think that she
In be able to bear it.” On the next morning Mis. Grantly,
^h much cunning preparation, went about the task which her
Isband had left her to pieriorm. It took her long to do, for
' was very cunning in the doing of it ; but at last it dropped
im her in words that there was a possibility — a bare possibility
lhat some disappointment might even yet be in store for them.
“ Do you mean, mamma, that the marriage will be put ofl ? ”
“I don't mean to say that I think it will; God forbid! but
just possible. I daresay that I am vc-y wrung to tell y»)ii
but I know that you have sense enough to bear it. Papa
gone to London, and we shall hear from linn soon.”
Then, mamma, I had better give them orvlers not to go on
the marking.”
CHAPTER XLVI
LADY LUHON’S REQUEST
•fiE bailifls on that day had then meals regular — and their
( which stale of things, together with an absence of all
^ in the way of making inventories and the like, I take to
fie earthly paradise of bailiffs ; and on the next morning
^ walked off with civil speeches and many apologies as to
'* intrusion. “They was very sorry,” they said, “to have
.bled a gen’leman as were a gen'leman, but in their way of
incs^' v.hat could they do ? ” To which one of them added
442 Framley Parsonage
a remark that, “business is business.” This statement I am
not prepared to contradict, but I would recommend all men i.n
choosing a profession to avoid any that may require an apolog' '
at every turn; either an apology or else a somewhat violent
assertion of right. Each younger male reader may, perhapi,
reply that he has no thought of becoming a sherifiPs officer ; buk
then are there not other cognate lines of life to which, perhaps,
the attention of some such may be attracted ? On the evening
of the day on which they went Mark received a note from Lady
Lufton begging him to call early on the following morning, and
immediately after breakfast he went across to Framley Court
It may be imagined that he was not in a very happy frame of mind,
but he felt the truth of his wife’s remark that the first plunge
into cold water was always the worst. Lady Lufton was not
a woman who would continually throw his disgrace into his
teeth, however terribly cold might be the first words with
which she spoke of it. lie strove hard as he entered her room
to carry his usual look and bearing, and to put out his hand so
greet her with his customary freedom, but he knew that lie
^iled. And it may be said that no good man who has broken
down in his goodness can carry the disgrace of his fall withoit
some look of shame. When a man is able to do that, he
ceases to be in any way good.
“ This has been a distressing affair,” said Lady Lufton, after
her first salutation.
“ Yes, indeed,” said he. “ It has been very sad for poor
Fanny.”
“Well; we must all have our little periods of grief; and
it may perhaps be fortunate if none of us have worse than this.
She will not complain, herself, I am sure.”
“ She complain ! ”
“ No, I am sure she will not. And now all I’ve got to say,
Mr. Robarts, is this : I hope you and Lufton have had enough
to do with black sheep to last you your lives ; for I niust
protest that your late friend Mr. Sowerby is a black she^”
In no possible way could Lady Lufton have alluded to Ihe
matter with greater kindness than in thus joining Mark’s nttjlie
with that of her son. It took away all the bitterness of fte
rebuke, and made the subject one on which even he m|«t
have spoken without difficulty. But now, seeing that she
so gentle to him, he could not but lean the more hardljt^lpn
himself
“ 1 have been very foolish,” said he, “ very foolish, and very
wrong, and very wicked."
Lady Lufton’s Request 443
“Very foolish, I believe, Mr. Robarts — to speak frankly and
once for all ; but, as I also believe, nothing worse. 1 thought
it best for both of us that we should just have one word about
it, and now I recommend that the matter be never mentioned
between us again.”
“ God bless you, Lady Lufton,” he said. “ I think no man
ever had such a hiend as you are.” She had been very quiet
during tl e interview, and almost subdued, not speaking with
the animation that was usual to her ; for this affair with Mr.
Robarts was not the only one she had to complete that day,
nor, perhaps, the one most difficult of completion. But she
cheered up a little under the praise now bestowed on her, for
it was the sort of praise she loved best. She did hope, and,
perhaps, flatter herself, that she was a good friend.
“ You must be good enough, then, to gratify my friendship
by coming up to dinner this evening; and Fanny, too, of
course. I cannot take any excuse, for the matter is completely
arranged. I have a particular reason for wishing it.” These
last violent injunctions had been added because Lady Lufton
had seen a refusal rising in the parson’s face. Poor Lady
Lufton 1 Her enemies — for even she had enemies — used to
declare of her, that an invitation to dinner was the only method
of showing itself of which her good-humour was cognizant.
But let me ask of her enemies whether it is not as good a
method as any other known to be extant ? Under such orders
as these obedience was of course a necessity, and he promised
that he, with his wife, would come across to dinner. And
then, when he went away, Lady Lufton ordered her carriage.
During these doings at Framley, Lucy Robarts still remained
at Hogglestock, nursing Mrs. Crawley. Nothing occurred to
take her back to Framley, for the same note from Fanny
which gave her the first tidings of the arrival of the Philistines
told her also of their departure — ^and also of the source from
whence relief had reached them. “ Don't come, therefore, for
that reason,” said the note, “ but, nevertheless, do come as
quickly as you can, for the whole house is sad without you.”
On the morning after the receipt of this note Lucy was sitting,
«s was now usual with her, beside an old arm-chair to which
her patient had lately been promoted. The fever had gone,
arid Mrs. Crawley was slowly regaining her strength — very
slowly, and with frequent caution from the Silverbridge doctor
that any attempt at being well too fast might again precipitate
her into an abyss of illness and domestic inefficiency.
" 1 really think 1 pan get about to-morrow.” said she ; **and
444 Framley Parsonage
then, dear Lucy, I need not keep you longer from your
home.”
“ You are in a great hurry to get rid of me, I think. I sup-
pose Mr. Crawley has been complaining again about the cream
in his tea.”
Mr. Crawley had on one occasion stated his assured convic-
tion that surreptitious daily supplies were being brought into
the house, because he had detected the presence of cream
instead of milk in his own cup. As, however, the ceam had
been going for sundry days before this, Miss Robarts had not
thought much of his ingenuity in making the discovery.
**Ah, you do not know how he speaks of you when your
back is turned.”
“ And how does he speak of me ? I know you would not
have the courage to tell me the whole.”
“No, I have not; for you would think it absurd coming
from one who looks like him. He says that if he were to
write a poem about womanhood, he would make you the
heroine.”
“ With a cream-jug in my hand, or else sewing buttons on
to a shirt-collar. But he never forgave me about the mutton
broth. He told me, in so many words, that I was a — story-
teller. And for the matter of that, my dear, so 1 was.”
“ He told me that you were an angel.”
“ Ggodness gracious ! ”
“A ministering angel. And so you have been. I can
almost feel it in my heart to be glad that 1 have been ill, seeing
that 1 have had you for my friend.”
“But you might have had that good fortune without the
fever.”
“ No, I should not. In my married life I have made no
friends till my illness brought you to me ; nor should I ever
really have known you but for that. How should 1 get to
know any one?”
“You will now, Mrs. Crawley; will you not? Promise that
you will. You will come to us at Framley when you are well?
You have promised already, you know.”
“You made me do so when I was too weak to refuse.”
“ And 1 shall make you keep your promise, too. He shall
come, also, if he likes ; but you shall come whether he likes
or no. And I won't hear a word about your old dresses.
Old dresses will wear as well at Framley as at Hogglestock.”
From all which it will appear that Mrs. Crawley and Lucy
Robarts had become very intimate during this period of the
Lady Lufton’s Request 445
nursing; as two women always will, or, at least, should do,
when shut up for weeks together in the same sick room.
The conversation was still going on between them when the
sound of wheels was heard upon the road. It was no highway
that passed before the house, and carriages of any sort were
not frequent there.
“ It is Fanny, I am sure,” said Lucy, rising from her chair.
“ There are two horses,” said Mrs. Crawley, distinguishing
the noise with the accurate sense of hearing which is always
attached to sickness; “and it is not the noise of the pony-
carriage.”
“It is a regular carriage,” said Lucy, speaking from the
window, “and stopping here. It is somebody from Framley
Court, for I know the servant.” As she spoke a blush came
to her forehead. Might it not be Lord Lufton, she thought
to herself — forgetting, at the moment, that Lord Lufton did
not go about the country in a close chariot with a fat foot-
man. Intimate as she had become with Mrs. Crawley she
had said nothing to her new friend on the subject of her love
affair. The carriage stopped, and down came the footman,
but nobody spoke to him from the inside.
“ He has probably brought something from Framley,” said
Lucy, having cream and such like matters in her mind ; for
cream and such like matters had come from Framley Court
more than once during her sojourn there. “ And the carriage,
probably, happened to be corning this way.” But the mystery
soon elucidated itself partially, or, perhaps, became more mys-
terious in another way. The red-armed little girl who had
been taken away by her frightened mother in the first burst of
the fever had now returned to her place, and at the present
moment entered the room, with awe-struck face, declaring
that Miss Robarts was to go at once to the big lady in the
carriage.
“ 1 suppose it*s Lady Lufton,” said Mrs. Crawley. Lucy's
heart was so absolutely in her mouth that any kind of speech
was at the moment impossible to her. Why should Lady
Lufton have come thither to Hogglestock, and why sh(juld
she want to see her, Lucy Robarts, in the carriage ? Had not
everything between them been settled ? And yet ! Lucy,
in the moment for thought that was allowed to her, could not
determine what might be the probable upshot of such an
interview. Her chief feeling was a desire to postpone it for
the present instant. But the red-armed little girl would not
allow that.
446 Framley Parsonage
“ You are to come at once,” said she.
And then Lucy, without having sf)oken a word, got up and
left the room. She walked downstairs, along the little passage,
and out through the small garden, with firm steps, but hardly
knowing whither she went or why. Her presence of mind
and self-possession had all deserted her. She knew that she
was unable to speak as she should do ; she felt that she would
have to regret her present behaviour, but yet she could not
help herself. Why should 1-ady Lufton have come to her
there? She went on, and the big footman stood with the
carriage door open. She stepped up almost unconsciously,
and, without knowing how she got there, she found herself
seated by I^ady Lufton. To tell the truth her ladyship also
was a little at a loss to know how she was to carry through her
present plan of operations. The duty of beginning, however,
was clearly with her, and therefore, having taken Lucy by the
hand, she spoke. “Miss Robarts,” she said, “my son has
come home. I don’t know whether you are aware of it.” She
spoke with a low, gentle voice, not quite like herself, but Lucy
was much too confused to notice this.
“I was not aware of it,” said Lucy. She had, however,
been so informed in Fanny’s letter, but all that had gone out
of her head.
“Yes; he has come back. He has been in Norway, you
know,— fishing.”
“ Yes,” said Lucy.
“I am sure you will remember all that took place when
you came to me, not long ago, in my little room upstairs at
Framley Court.” In answer to which, Lucy, quivering in
every nerve, and wrongly thinking that she was visibly shaking
in every limb, timidly answered that she did remember. Why
was it that she had then been so bold, and now was so poor a
coward ?
“ Well, my dear, all that I said to you then I said to you
thinking that it was for the best. You, at any rate, will not be
angry with me for loving my own son better than I love any
one else.”
“ Oh, no,” said Lucy.
“ He is the best of sons, and the best of men, and I am sure
that he will be the best of hu.sbands.”
Lucy had an idea, by instinct, however, rather than by sight,
that Lady Lufton’s eyes were full of tears as she spoke. As
for herself she was altogether blinded, and did not dare to
lift her face or to turn her head. As for the utterance of any
Lady Lufton’s Request 447
sound, that was quite out of the question. “ And now 1 have
come here, Lucy, to ask you to be his wife.”
She was quite sure that she heard the words. They came
plainly to her ears, leaving on her brain their proper sense,
but yet she could not move or make any sign that she had
understood them. It seemed as though it would be ungenerous
in her *^0 take advantage of such conduct and to accept an
offer made with so much self-sacrifice. She had not time at
the first moment to think even of his happiness, let alone her
own, but she thought only of the magnitude of the concession
which had been made to her. When she had constituted
Lady Lufton the arbiter of her destiny she had regarded the
question of her love as decided against herself. She had
found herself unable to endure the position of being Lady
I.ufton’s dauphier “in-la”.'.' while Lady Lufton would be scorning
her, and therefore she had given up the game. She had given
up the game, sacrificing herself, and, as far as it might be a
sacrifice, sacrificing him also. She had been resolute to stand
to her word in this respect, rnit she had never allowed herself
to think it possible that Lady Lufton should comply with the
conditions which she, Lucy, had laid upon her. And yet such
was the case, as she so plainly heard. “ And now I have come
here, Lucy, to ask you to l)e his wife.” How long they sat
together silent, I cannot say; counted by minutes the time
would not probably have amounted to many, but to each of
them the duration seemed considerable. Lady Lufton, while
she was spe^aking, had contrived to get hold of Lucy^s hand,
and she sat, still holding it, trying to look into Lucy’s face, —
which, however, she could hardly see, so much was it turned
away. Neither, indeed, ^vere Lady Lufton’s eyes perfectly
dry. No answer came to her question, and therefore, after a
while, it was necessary that she should speak again.
“ Must 1 go back to him, Lucy, and tell him that there is
some other objection — something besides a stern old mother ;
some hindrance, perhaps, not so easily overcome ? ”
“ No,” said Lucy, and it was all which at the moment she
could say.
“ What shall I tell him then ? Shall I say yes — simply yes ? *'
• •* Simply yes,” said Lucy.
“ And as to the stern old mother who thought her only son
too precious to be parted with at the first word — is nothing to
be said to her ? ”
Oh, Lady Lufton 1 ”
No forgiveness *to be spoken, no sign of affection to be
•p i8i
448 Framley Parsonage
given? Is she always to be regarded as stern and cross,
vexatious and disagreeable?’* Lucy slowly turned round her
head and looked up into her companion’s face. Though she
had as yet no voice to speak of affection she could fill her eyes
with love, and in that way make to her future mother all the
promises that were needed. “ Lucy, dearest Lucy, you must
be very dear to me now.” And then they were in each other's
arms, kissing each other. Lady Lufton now desired her
coachman to drive up and down for some little space along
the road while she completed her necessary conversation with
Lucy. She wanted at first to carry her back to Framley that
evening, promising to send her again to Mrs. Crawley on the
following morning — “ till some permanent arrangement could
be made,” by which Lady Lufton intended the substitution ol
a regular nurse for her future daughter-in-law, seeing that
Lucy Robarts was now invested in her eyes with attributes
which made it unbecoming that she should sit in attendance at
Mrs. Crawley’s bedside. But Lucy would not go back to
Framley on that evening ; no, nor on the next morning. She
would be so glad if Fanny would come to her there, and then
she would arrange about going home. “ But, Lucy, dear, what
am I to say to Ludovic ? Perhaj^s you would feel it awkward
if he were to come to see you here.”
“Oh, yes, Lady Lufton ; pray tell him not to do that.”
“ Arfd is that all that I am to tell him ? ”
“Tell him — tell him— He won’t want you to tell him any-
thing; — only I should like to be quiet for a day, Lady Lufton.”
“ Well, dearest, you shall be quiet ; the day after to-morrow
then. Mind, we must not spare you any longer, because it
will be right that you should be at home now. He would think it
very hard if you were to be so near, and he was not to be allowed
to look at you. And there will be some one else who will
w’ant to see you. 1 shall w^ant to have you very near to me, for
1 shall be wretched, Lucy, if I cannot teach you to love me.”
In answer to which Lucy did find voice enough to make
sundry promises. And then she was put out of the carriage at
the little wicket gate, and Lady Lufton was driven back to
Framley. I wonder whether the servant when he held the
door for Miss Robarts was conscious that he was waiting on his
future mistress. I fancy that he was, for these sort of people
always know everything, and the peculiar courtesy of his
demeanour as he let down the carriage steps was very observable.
Lucy felt almost beside herself as she returned upstairs, not
knowing what to do or how to look, and with what words to
Lady Lufton’s Request 449
speak. It behoved her to go at once to Mrs Crawley’s room,
and yet she longed to be alone. She knew that she was quite
unable either to conceal her thoughts or express them ; nor
did she wish at the present moment to talk to any one about
her happiness, — seeing that she could not at the present
moment talk to Fanny Robarts. She went, however, without
delay into Mrs. Crawley’s room, and with that little eager way
of speaking quickly which is so common with people who
know that they are confused, said that she feared she had been
a very long time away. “ And was it Lady Lufton ? ”
“ Yes ; it was Lady Lufton.”
“Why, Lucy; I did not know that you and her ladyship
were such friends.”
“She had something particular she wanted to say,” said
Lucy, avoiding the question, and avoiding also Mrs. Crawley’s
eyes ; and then she sat down in her usual chair.
“ It was nothing unpleasant, 1 hope.”
“ No, nothing at all unpleasant ; nothing of that kind. — Oh,
Mrs. Crawley, I’ll tell you some other time, but pray do not
ask me now.” And then she got up and escaped, for it was
absolutely necessary that she should be alone.
When she reached her own room — that in which the children
usually slept — she made a great effort to compose herself, but
not altogether successfully. She got out her paper and
blotting'book, intending, as she said to herself, to write to
Fanny, knowing, however, that the letter when written would
be destroyed; but she was not able even to form a word. Her
hand was unsteady and her eyes were dim and her thoughts
were incapable of being fixed. She could only sit, and think,
and wonder and hope ; occasionally wiping the tears from her
eyes, and asking herself why her present frame of mind was so
painful to her ? During the last two or three months she had
felt no fear of Lord Lufton, had always carried herself befoie
him on equal terms, and had been signally capable of doing
so when he made his declaration to her at the parsonage ; but
now she looked forward with an undefined dread to the first
moment in which she should see him. And then she thought
of a certain evening she had passed at Framley Court, and
acknowledged to herself that there was some pleasure in
looking back to that. Grlselda Grantly had been there, and
all the constitutional powers of the two families had been at
work to render easy a process of love-making between her and
Lord Lufton. Lucy had seen and understood it all, without
knowing that she understood it, and had, in a certain degree,
450 Framley Parsonage
sufTered from beholding it. She had placed herself apart, not
complaining — painfully conscious of some inferiority, but, at
the same time, almost boasting to herself that in her own way
she was the superior. And then he had come behind her chair,
whispering to her, speaking to her his first words of kindness
and good-nature, and she had resolved that she would be his
friend — his friend, even though Grisclda Grantly might be his
wife. What those resolutions were worth had soon become
manifest to her. She had soon confessed to herself the result
of that friendship, and had determined to bear her punishment
with courage. But now
She sate so for about an hour, and would fain have so sat out
the day. But as this could not be, she got up, and having
washed her face and eyes returned to Mrs. Crawley’s room.
There she found Mr. Crawley also, to her great joy, for she
knew that while he was there no questions would be asked of
her. He was always very gentle to her, treating her with an
old-fashioned, polished respect — except when compelled on
that one occasion by his sense of duty to accuse her of
mendacity respecting the purveying of victuals , but he had
never become absolutely familiar with her as his wife had
done ; and it was well for her now that he had not done so, for
she cquld not have talked about Lady Lufton. In the evening,
when the three were present, she did manage to say that she
expected Mrs. Robarts would come over on the following day.
“We shall part with you. Miss Robarts, with the deepest
regret,” said Mr. Crawley ; “ but we would not on any account
keep you longer. Mrs. Crawley can do without you now.
What she would have done, had you not come to us, I am at
a loss to think.”
“ I did not say that I should go,” said Lucy.
“ But you will,” said Mrs. Crawley “ Yes, dear, you will.
I know that it is proper now that you should return. Nay,
but we will not have you any longer. And the poor dear
children, too, — they may return. How am I to thank Mrs.
Robarts for what she has done for us ? ” It was settled that if
Mrs. Robarts came on the following day Lucy should go back
with her ; and then, during the long watches of the night — for
on this last night Lucy would not leave the bed-side of her new
friend till long after the dawn had broken — she did tell Mrs.
Crawley what was to be her destiny in life. To herself there
seemed nothing strange in her new position ; but to Mrs.
Crawley it was wonderful that she — she, poor as she was —
should have an embryo peeress at her bedside, handing her her
Lady Lufton’s Request 451
cup to drink, and smoothing her pillow that she might be at
rest. It was strange, and she could hardly maintain her accus-
tomed familiarity. Lucy felt this at the moment.
“ It must make no difference, you know,” said she, eagerly ;
” none at all, between you and me. Promise me that it shall
make no difference.” The promise was, of CDiirse, exacted ;
but it WaS not possible that such a promise should be kept.
Very early on the following morning — so early that it woke her
while still in her first sleep — there came a letter for her from
the parsonage. Mrs. Robarts had written it, after her return
home from Lady Lufton’s dinner. The letter said : —
“ My own own Darling, — How am I to congratulate you,
and be eager enough in wishing you joy ? I do wish you joy,
and am so very happy, f write now chiefly to say that I shall
be over with you about twelve to-morrow, and that I must
bring you away with me. If I did not some one else, by no
means so trustworthy, would insist on doing it.”
But this, though it was thus stated to be the chief part of the
letter, and though it might be so in matter, was by no means so
in space. It was very long, for Mrs. Robarts had sat writing it
till past midnight
** I will not say anything about him,” she went on to say, after
two pages had been filled with his name, but I must tell you
how beautifully she has behaved. You will own that she is a
dear woman ; will you not ? '*
Lucy had already owned it many times since the visit of
yesterday, and had declared to herself, as she has continued to
declare ever since, that she had never doubted it.
“ She took us by surprise when we got into the drawing-
room before dinner, and she told us first of all that she had
been to sec you at Hogglestock. Lord Lufton, of course, could
not keep the secret, but brought it out instantly. I can’t tell
you now how he told it all, but I am sure you will believe that
he did it in the best possible manner. He took my hand and
pressed it half a dozen times, and I thought he was going to do
something else ; but he did not, so you need not be jealous.
And she was so nice to Mark, saying such things in praise of
you, and paying all manner of compliments to your father.
But Lord Lufton scolded her immensely for not bringing you.
He said it was lackadaisical and nonsensical ; but I could see
452 Framley Parsonage
how much he loved her for what she had done ; and she could
see it too, for I know her ways, and know that she was
delighted with him. She could not keep her eyes off him all
the evening, and certainly I never did see him look so well.
“ And then while Lord Lufton and Mark were in the dining-
room, where they remained a terribly long time, she would
make me go through the house that she might show me yoiir
rooms, and explain how you were to be mistress there. She
has got it all arranged to perfection, and I am sure she has
been thinking about it for years. Her great fear at present is
that you and he should go and live at Lufton. If you hwve
any gratitude in you, either to her or me, you will not let him
do this. I consoled her by saying that there are not two
stones upon one another at Lufton as yet ; and I believe such
is the case. Besides, everybody says that it is the ugliest spot
in the world. She went on to declare, with tears in her eyes,
that if you were content to remain at Framley, she would never
interfere in anything. I do think that she is the best woman
that ever lived.”
So much as I have given of this letter formed but a small
portion of it, but it comprises all that it is necessary that we
should know. Exactly at twelve o’clock on that day Puck the
pony appeared, with Mrs. Robarts and Grace Crawley behind
him, Grace having been brought back as being capable of
some service in the house. Nothing that was confidential, and
very little that was loving, could be said at the moment, because
Mr. Crawley was there, waiting to bid Miss Robarts adieu ; and
he had not as yet been informed of what was to be the future
fate of his visitor. So they could only press eacli other’s hands
and embrace, which to Lucy was almost a relief ; for even to her
sister in-law she hardly as yet knew how to speak openly on
this subject.
“May God Almighty bless you, Miss Robarts,” said Mr.
Crawley, as he stood in his dingy sitting-room ready to lead her
out to the pony-carriage. “ You have brought sunshine into
this house, even in the time of sickness, when there was no
sunshine ; and He will bless you. You have been the Good
Samaritan, binding up the wounds of the afflicted, pouring in
oil and balm. To the mother of my children you have given
life, and to me you have brought light, and comfort, and good
words, — making my spirit glad within me as it had not been
gladdened before. All this hath come ol charity, which vaunteth
not itself and is not puffed up. Faith and hope arc great and
Nemesis 453
beautiful, but charity exceedeth them all.” And having so
spoken, instead of leading her out, he went away and hid
himself. How Puck behaved himself as Fanny drove him
back to Framley, and how those two ladies in the carriage
behaved themselves — of that, perhaps, nothing further need be
said.
CHAPTER XLVII
NEMESIS
But in spite of all these joyful tidings it must, alas ! be
remembered that Poena, that just but Rhadamanthine goddess,
whom we moderns ordinarily call Punishment, or Nemesis
when we w’ish to speak of her goddess-ship, very seldom fails
to catch a wicked man though she have sometimes a lame foot
of her own, and though tiie wicked man may possibly get a
start of her. In this instance the wicked man had been our
unfortunate friend Mark Robarts; wicked in that he had
wittingly touched pitch, gone to Gatherum Castle, ridden fast
mares across the country to Cobbold’s Ashes, and fallen very
imprudently among the Tozers ; and the instrument used by
Nemesis was Mr. Tom Towers of the Jupiter^ than whom, in
these our days, there is no deadlier scourge in the hands of
that goddess. In the first instance, however, I must mention,
though I w'ill not relate, a little conversation which took place
between Lady Lufton and Mr. Robarts. That gentleman
thought it right to say a few words more to her ladyship
respecting those money transactions. He could not but
feel, he said, that he had received that prebendal stall from the
hands of Mr. Sow^erby ; and under such circumstances, con-
sidering all that had happened, he could not be easy in his
mind as long as he held it. What he was about to do would,
he was aware, delay considerably his final settlement with
Lord Lufton ; but Lufton, he hoped, would pardon that,
and agree with him as to the propriety of what he was about
to do.
On the first blush of the thing Lady Lufton did not quite go
along with him. Now that Lord Lufton was to marry the
parson’s sister it might be well that the parson should be a
dignitary of the church ; and it might he well, also, that one so
nearly connected with her son should be comfortable in his
money matters. There loomed, also, in the future, some
distant possibility of higher clerical honours for a peer’s
brother-in-law ; and the top rung of the ladder is always more
454 Framley Parsonage
easily attained when a man has already ascended a step or two.
Ihit, nevertheless, when the matter came to be fully explained
to her, when she saw clearly the circumstances under which
the stall had been conferred, she did agree that it had better
be given up. And well for both of them it was — well for
them all at Framley — that this conclusion had been reached
before the scourge of Nemesis had fallen. Nemesis, of course,
declared that her scourge had produced the resignation; but
It was generally understood that this was a false boast, for all
clerical men at Barchester knew that the stall had been
restored to the chapter, or, in other words, into the hands of
the Government, before Tom Towers had twirled the fatal
lash above his head. But the manner of the twirling w'as as
follows : —
“ It is with difficulty enough,” said the article in the Jupiter^
“that the Church of England maintains at the present moment
that ascendancy among the religious sects of this country
w^hich it so loudly claims. And perhaps it is rather from an
old-fashioned and time-honoured affection for its standing than
from any intrinsic merits of its own that some such general
acknowledgment of its ascendancy is still allowed to prevail.
If, however, the patrons and clerical members of this Church
are bold enough to disregard all general rules of decent
behaviour, we think we may predict that this chivalrous feeling
will be found to give way. From time to time we hear of
instances of such imprudence, and are made to wonder at the
folly of those who are supposed to hold the Stale Church in
the greatest reverence.
“ Among those positions of dignified ease to which fortunate
clergymen may be promoted are the stalls of the canons or
prebendaries in our cathedrals. Some of these, as is well
known, carry little or no emolument with them, but some are
rich in the good things of this world. Excellent family houses
are attached to them, with we hardly know what domestic
privileges/ and clerical incomes, moreover, of an amount
which, if divided, would make glad the hearts of many a hard-
working clerical slave. Reform has been busy even among
these stalls, attaching some amount of work to the pay, and
paring off some superfluous wealth from such of them as were
over full ; but reform has been lenient with them, acknow-
ledging that it was well to have some such places of comfort-
able and dignified retirement for those who have worn them-
selves out in the hard work of their profession. There has of
Nemesis 455
late prevailed a taste for the appointment of young bishops,
produced no doubt by a feeling that bishops should be men
fitted to get through really hard work; but we have never
heard that young prebendaries were considered desirable. A
clergyman selected for such a position should, we have always
thought, have earned an evening of ease by a long day of work,
and should, above all things, be one whose life has been, and
therefore in human probability will be, so decorous as to be
honourable to the cathedral of his adoption.
“ We were, however, the other day given to understand that
one of these luxurious benefices, belonging to the cathedral of
Barchester, had been bestowed on the Rev. Mark Robarts, the
vicar of a neighbouring parish, on the understanding that he
should hold the living and the stall together ; and on making
further inquiry we were surprised to learn that this fortunate
gentleman is as yet considerably under thirty years of age. We
were desirous, however, of believing that his learning, his piety,
and his conduct, might be of a nature to add peculiar grace to
his chapter, and therefore, though almost unwillingly, we were
silent. But now it has come to our ears, and, indeed, to the
ears of all the world, that this piety and conduct are sadly
wanting ; and judging of Mr. Robaits by his life and associates,
we are inclined to doubt even the learning. He has at this
moment, or at any rate had but a few days since, an execution
in his parsonage house at Framley, on the suit of certain most
disreputable bill discounters in London ; and probably would
have another execution in his other house in Barchester Close,
but for the fact that he has never thought it necessary to go
into residence.”
Then followed some very stringent, and, no doubt, much-
needed advice to those clerical members of the Church of
England who are supposed to be mainly responsible for the
conduct of their brethren ; and the article ended as follows : —
“ Many of these stalls are in tlie gift of the respective deans
and chapters, and in such cases the dean and chapters are
bound to see that proper persons are appointed ; but in other
instances the power of selection is vested in the Crown, and then
an equal responsibility rests on the government of the day. Mr.
Robarts, we learn, was appointed to the stall in Barchester by
the late Prime Minister, and we really think that a grave censure
rests on him for the manner in which his patronage has been
exercised. It may be impossible that he should himself in all
45^ Framley Parsonage
such cases satisfy himself by personal inquiry. But our govern-
ment is altogether conducted on the footing of vicarial responsi-
bility. Quod facit per alium^facit per se^ is in a special manner
true of our ministers, and any man who rises to high position
among them must abide by the danger thereby incurred. In
this peculiar case we are informed that the recommendation was
made by a very recently admitted member of the Cabinet, to
whose appointment we alluded at the time as a great mistake.
The gentleman in question held no high individual ofhce
of his own ; but evil such as this which has now been done
at Barchester, is exactly the sort of mischief which follows
the exaltation of unfit men to high positions, even though no
great scope for executive failure may be placed within their
reach.
“ If Mr. Robarts will allow us to tender to him our advice
he will lose no time in going through such ceremony as may
be necessary again to place the stall at the disposal of the
Crown!”
I may here observe that poor Harold Smith, when he read
this, writhing in agony, declared it to be the handiwork of his
hated enemy, Mr. Supplehouse. He knew the mark ; so, at
least, he said ; but I myself am inclined to believe that his
animosity misled him. 1 think that one greater than Mr.
Supplehouse had taken upon himself the punishment of our
poor vicar. This was very dreadful to them all at Framley,
and, when first read, seemed to crush them to atoms. Poor
Mrs. Robarts, when she heard it, seemed to think that for
them the world was over. An attempt had been made to keep
it from her, but such attempts always fail, as did this. Tljt
article was copied into all the good-natured local newspapers,
and she soon discovered that something was being hidden.
At last it was shown to her by her husband, and then for a few
hours she was annihilated ; for a few days she was unwilling to
show herself ; and for a few weeks she was very sad. But
after that the world seemed to go on much as it had done
before; the sun shone upon them as warmly as though the
article had not been written ; and not only the sun of heaven,
which, as a rule, is not limited in his shining by any display of
pagan thunder, but also the genial sun of their own sphere, the
warmth and light of which were so essentially necessary to
their happiness. Neighbouring rectors did not look glum, nor
did the rectors’ wives refuse to call. The people in the shops
at Barchester did not regard her as though she were a disgraced
Nemesis 457
woman, though it must be acknowledged that Mrs. Proudie
passed her in the close with the coldest nod of recognition.
On Mrs. Proudie’s mind alone did the article seem to have
any enduring effect In one respect it was, perhaps, beneficial;
Lady Lufton was at once induced by it to make common cause
with her own clergyman, and thus the remembrance of Mr.
Robaits' sins passed away the quicker from the minds of the
whole Framley Court household. And, indeed, the county at
large was not able to give to the matter that undivided atten-
tion which would have been considered its due at periods of
no more than ordinary interest. At the present moment
preparations were being made for a general election, and
although no contest was to take place in the eastern division, a
very violent figbi uas being carried on in the west; and the
circumstances of that fight were so exciting that Mr. Robarts
and his article were forgotten before their time. An edict
had gone forth from Gatherum Castle directing that Mr.
Sowerby should be turned out, and an answering note of
defiance had been sounded from Chaldicotes, protesting on
behalf of Mr. Sowerby, that the duke's behest would not be
obeyed.
Theie are two classes of persons in this realm who are con-
stitutionally inefficient to take any part in returning members
to Parliament — peers, namely, and women; and yet it was
soon known through the whole length and breadth of the
county that the present electioneering fight was being carried
on between a peer and a woman. Miss Dunstable had been
declared the purchaser of the Chace of Chaldicotes, as it were,
just in the very nick of time ; which purchase — so men in
Barsetshire declared, not knowing anything of the facts —
would have gone altogether the other way, had not the giants
obtained temporary supremacy over the gods. The duke was
a supporter of the gods, and therefore, so Mr. Fothergill hinted,
his money had been refused. Miss Dunstable was prepared
to beard this ducal friend of the gods in his own county, and
therefore her money had l)een taken. I am inclined, however,
to think that Mr. Fothergill knew nothing about it, and to
opine that Miss Dunstable, in her eagerness for victory, offered
to the Crown more money than the property was worth in the
duke’s opinion, and that the Crown took advantage of her
anxiety, to the manifest profit of the public at large. And it
soon became known also that Miss Dunstable was, in fact, the
proprietor of the whole Chaldicotes estate, and that in pro
moting the success of Mr. Sowerby as a candidate for the
458 Framley Parsonage
county, she was standing by her own tenant. It also became
known, in the course of the battle, that Miss Dunstable had
herself at last succumbed, and that she was about to marry Dr.
Thorne of Greshamsbury, or the “ Greshamsbury apothecary,”
as the adverse party now delighted to call him. “ He has
been little better than a quack all his life,” said Dr. Fillgrave,
the eminent physician of Barchester, “ and now he is going to
marry a quack’s daughter.” By which, and the like to which,
Dr. Thorne did not allow himself to be much annoyed. But
all this gave rise to a very pretty series of squibs arranged
between Mr. Fothergill and Mr. Closerstill, the electioneering
agent. Mr. Sowerby was named “ the lady’s pet,” and
descriptions were given of the lady who kept this pet, which
were by no means flattering to Miss Dunstable’s appearance,
or manners, or age. And then the western division of the
county was asked in a grave tone — as counties and boroughs
are asked by means of advertisements stuck up on blind walls
and barn doors — whether it was fitting and proper that it
should be represented by a woman. Upon which the county
was again asked whether it was fitting and proper that it should
be represented by a duke. And then the question became
more personal as against Miss Dunstable, and inquiry was urged
whether the county would not be indelibly disgraced if it were
not only handed over to a woman, but handed over to a woman
who sold the oil of Lebanon. But little was got by this move,
for an answering placard explained to the unfortunate county
how deep would be its shame if it allowed itself to become the
appanage of any peer, but more especially of a peer who was
known to be the most immoral lord that ever disgraced the
benches of the upper house. And so the battle went on very
prettily, and, as money was allowed to flow freely, the West
Barsetshire world at large was not ill satisfied. It is wonderful
how much disgrace of that kind a borough or county can
endure without flinching; and wonderful, also, seeing how
supreme is the value attached to the Constitution by the realm
at large, how very little the principles of that Constitution are
valued by the people in detail. The duke, of course, did not
show himself. He rarely did on any occasion, and never on
such occasions as this; but Mr. Fothergill was to be seen
everywhere. Miss Dunstable, also, did not hide her light
under a bushel ; though I here declare, on the faith of an his-
torian, that the rumour spread abroad of her having made a
speech to the electors from the top of the porch over the hotel-
door at Courcy was not founded on fact * No doubt she was
Nemesis 459
at Courcy, and her carriage stopped at the hotel ; but neither
there nor elsewhere did she make any public exhibition.
“ They must have mistaken me for Mrs. Proudie,” she said,
when the rumour reached her ears. But there was, alas ! one
great element of failure on Miss Dunstable’s side of the battle.
Mr. Sowerby himself could not be induced to f.ght it as became
a man. Any positive injunctions that were laid upon him he
did, in a sort, obey. It had been a part of the bargain that
he should stand the contest, and from that bargain he could
not well go back ; but he had not the spirit left to him for any
true fighting on his own part. He could not go up on the
hustings, and there defy the duke. Early in the affair Mr.
Fothergill challenged him to do so, and Mr. Sowerby never
took up the gauntl?t
“ We have heard,” said Mr. Fothergill, in that great speech
which he had made at the Omnium Arms at Silverbridge —
**we have heard much during this election of the Duke of
Omnium, and of the injuries which he is supposed to have
inflicted on one of the candidates. The duke’s name is very
frequent in the mouths of the gentlemen — and of the lady —
who support Mr. Sowerby’s claims. But 1 do not think that
Mr. Sowerby himself has dared to say much about the duke.
I defy Mr. Sowerby to mention the duke’s name upon the
hustings.” And it so happened that Mr. Sowerby never did
mention the duke’s name.
It is ill fighting when the spirit is gone, and Mr. Sowerby’s
spirit for such things was now well nigh broken. It is true
that he had escaped from the net in which the duke, by Mr.
Fothergill’s aid, had entangled him ; but he had only broken
out of one captivity into another. Money is a serious thing ;
and when gone cannot be had back by a shuffle in the game,
or a fortunate blow with the battledore, as may political power,
or reputation, or fashion. One hundred thousand pounds
gone, must remain as gone, let the person who claims to have
had the honour of advancing it be Mrs. B. or my Lord C. No
lucky dodge can erase such a claim from the things that be —
unless, indeed, such dodge be possible as Mr. Sowerby tried
with Miss Dunstable, It was better for him, undoubtedly, to
have the lady for a creditor than the duke, seeing that it was
possible for him to live as a tenant in his own old house under
the lady's reign. But this he found to be a sad enough life,
after all that was come and gone.
The election on Miss Dunstable’s part was lost. She
carried on the contest nobly, fighting it to the last moment,
460 Framley Parsonage
and sparing neither her own money nor that of her antagonist ;
but she carried it on unsuccessfully. Many gentlemen did
support Mr. Sowerby because they were willing enough to
emancipate their county from the duke's thraldom ; but Mr.
Sowerby was felt to be a black sheep, as Lady Lufton had
called him, and at the close of the election he found himself
banished from the representation of West Barsetshire ; —
banished for ever, after having held the county fo* five-and-
twenty years. Unfortunate Mr. Sowerby! I cannot take
leave of him here without some feeling of regret, knowing that
there was that within him which might, under better guidance,
have produced better things. There are men, even of high
birth, who seem as though they were born to be rogues ; but
Mr. Sowerby was, to my thinking, born to be a gentleman.
That he had not been a gentleman — that he had bolted from
his appointed course, going terribly on the wrong side of the
posts — let us all acknowledge. It is not a gentlemanlike deed,
but a very blackguard action, to obtain a friend’s acceptance
to a bill in an unguarded hour of social intercourse. That
and other similar doings have stamped his character too
plainly. But, nevertheless, I claim a tear for Mr. Sowerby,
and lament that he has failed to run his race discreetly, in
accordance with the rules of the Jockey Club. He attempted
that plan of living as a tenant in his old house at Chaldicotes,
and of making a living out of the land which he farmed ; but
he soon abandoned it. He had no aptitude for such industry,
and could not endure his altered position in the county. He
soon relinquished Chaldicotes of his own accord, and has
vanished away, as such men do vanish — not altogether without
necessary income ; to which point in the final arrangement of
their joint affairs, Mrs. Thorne’s man of business — if 1 may be
allowed so far to anticipate — paid special attention. And
thus Lord Dumbello, the duke’s nominee, got in, as the duke’s
nominee had done for very many years past. There was no
Nemesis here — none as yet. Nevertheless, she with the lame
foot will assuredly catch him, the duke, if it be that he deserve
to be caught. With us his grace’s appearance has been so
unfrequent that I think we may omit to make any further in-
quiry as to his concerns.
One point, however, is worthy of notice, as showing the
good sense with which we manage our affairs here in England.
In an early portion of this story the reader was introduced to
the interior of Gatherum Castle, and there saw Miss Dunstable
entertained by the duke in the most friendly manner. Since
How They were All Married 461
those days the lady has become the duke’s neighbour, and has
waged a war with him, which he probably felt to be very
vexatious. But, nevertheless, on the next great occasion at
Gatherum Castle, Dr. and Mrs. Thorne were among the
visitors, and to no one was the duke more personally courteous
than to his opulent neighbour, the late Miss Dunstable.
CHAPTER XLVIII
HOW THEY WERE ALL MARRIED, HAD TWO CHILDREN, AND
LIVED HAPPY EVER AFTER
Dear, affectionate, sympathetic readers, we have four couple
of sighing lovers with whom to deal in this our last chapter, and
I, as leader of the chorus, disdain to press you further with doubts
as to the happiness of any of that quadrille. They were all
made happy, in spite of that little episode which so lately took
place at Barchester ; and in telling of their happiness — shortly,
as is now necessary — we wm'U take them chronologically, giving
precedence to those who first appeared at the hymeneal altar.
In July, then, at the cathedral, by the father of the bride,
assisted by his examining chaplain, Olivia Proudie, the eldest
daughter of the Bishop of Barchester, was joined in marriage
to the Rev. Tobias Tickler, incumbent of the Trinity district
church in Bethnal Green. Of the bridegroom, in this instance,
our acquaintance has been so short, that it is not, perhaps,
necessary to say much. When coming to the wedding he pro-
posed to bring his three darling children with him ; but in this
measure he was, 1 think prudently, stopped by advice, rather
strongly worded, from his future valued mother-in-law. Mr.
Tickler was not an opulent man, nor had he hitherto attained
any great fame in his profession ; but, at the age of forty-three
he still had sufficient opportunity before him, and now that his
merit has been properly viewed by high ecclesiastical eyes the
refreshing dew of deserved promotion will no doubt fall upon
him. 1 he marriage was very smart, and Olivia carried herself
through the trying ordeal with an excellent propriety of conduct.
Up to that time, and e^en for a few days longer, there was
doubt at Barchester as to that strange journey which Lord
Dumbello undoubtedly did take to France. When a man so
circumstanced will suddenly go to Paris, without notice given
even to his future bride, people must doubt ; and grave were
the apprehensions expressed on this occasion by Mrs. Proudie,
even at her child’s .wedding breakfast. ” God bless you, my
462 Framley Parsonage
dear children/’ she said, standing up at the head of her table
as she addressed Mr. Tickler and his wife ; “ when I see your
perfect happiness — perfect, that is, as far as human happiness
can be made perfect in this vale of tears — and think of the
terrible calamity which has fallen on our unfortunate neighbours,
1 cannot but acknowledge His infinite mercy and goodness.
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.” By which she
intended, no doubt, to signify that whereas Mr. Tickler had
been given to her Olivia, Lord Dumbello had been Uken away
from the archdeacon’s Griselda. The happy couple then went
in Mrs. Proudie’s carriage to the nearest railway station but one,
and from thence proceeded to Malvern, and there spent the
honeymoon. And a great comfort it was, I am sure, to Mrs.
Proudie when authenticated tidings reached Barchester that Lord
Dumbello had returned from Paris, and that the Hartletop-
Grantly alliance was to be carried to its completion. She still,
however, held her opinion — whether correctly or not who shall
say ? — that the young lord had intended to escape. “ The
archdeacon has shown great firmness in the way in which he
has done it,” said Mrs. Proudie ; “but whether he has consulted
his child’s best interests in forcing her into a marriage with an
unwilling husband, I for one must take leave to doubt. But
then, unfortunately, we all know how completely the arch-
deacon is devoted to worldly mattei s.”
In this instance the archdeacon’s devotion to worldly matters
was rewarded by that success which he no doubt desired. He
did go up to London, and did see one or two of Lord Dumbello’s
friends. This he did, not obtrusively, as though in fear of any
falsehood or vacillation on the part of the viscount, but with
that discretion and tact for which he has been so long noted.
Mrs. Proudie declares that during the few days of his absence
from Barsetshire he himself crossed to France and hunted
down Lord Dumbello at Paris. As to this I am not pre-
pared to say anything; but 1 am quite sure, as will be all
those who knew the archdeacon, that he was not a man to see
his daughter wronged as long as any measure remained by
which such wrong might be avoided. But, be that as it may
— that mooted question as to the archdeacon’s journey to Pari.s
— Lord Dumbello was forthcoming at Plumstead on the 5th of
August, and went through his work like a man. The Hartle-
top family, when the alliance was found to be unavoidable,
endeavoured to arrange that the wedding should be held at
Hartletop Priory, in order that the clerical dust and dinginess
of Barchester Close might not soil the splendour of the
How They were All Married 463
marriage gala doings ; for, to tell the truth, the Hartletopians,
as a rule, were not proud of their new clerical connections.
But on this subject Mrs. Grantly was very properly inexorable ;
nor when an attempt was made on the bride to induce her to
throw over her mamma at the last moment and pronounce for
herself that she would be married at the priory, was it attended
with anv success. The Hartletopians knew nothing of the
Grantly fibre and calibre, or they would have made no such
attempt. The marriage took place at Plumstead, and on the
morning of the day Lord Dumbello posted over from Bar-
chester to the rectory. The ceremony was performed by the
archdeacon, without assistance, although the dean, and the
precentor, and two other clergymen, were at the ceremony.
Griselda’s propriety of conduct was quite equal to that of
Olivia Proudie j inoeed, nothing could exceed the statuesque
grace and fine aristocratic bearing with which she carried her-
self on the occasion. The three or four words which the
service required of her she said with ease and dignity ; there
was neither sobbing nor crying to disturb the work or em-
barrass her friends, and she signed her name in the church
books as “ Griselda Grantly ” without a tremor — and without
a regret.
Mrs. Grantly kissed her and blessed her in the hall as she
was about to step forward to her travelling carriage, leaning on
her father’s arm, and the child put up her face to her mother
for a last whisper. “ Mamma,” she said, “ I suppose Jane can
put her hand at once on the moire antique when we reach
Dover ? ” Mrs. Grantly smiled and nodded, and again
blessed her child. There vas not a tear shed — at least, not
then — nor a sign of sorrow to cloud for a moment the gay
splendour of the day. But the mother did bethink herself, in
the solitude of her own room, of those last words, and did
acknowledge a lack of something for which her heart had
sighed. She had boasted to her sister that she had nothing to
regret as to her daughter’s education ; but now, when she was
alone after her success, did she feel that she could still support
herself with that boast ? For, be it known, Mrs. Grantly had
a heart within her bosom and a faith within her heart. The
world, it is true, had pressed uf)on her sorely with all its
weight of accumulated clerical wealth, but it had not utterly
crushed her — not her, but only her child. For the sins of the
father, are they not visited on the third and fourth generation ?
But if any such feeling of remorse did for awhile mar the ful-
ness of Mrs. Grantly’s joy, it was soon dispelled by the perfect
464 Framley Parsonage
success of her daughter's married life. At the end of the
autumn the bride and bridegroom returned from their tour,
and it was evident to all the circle at Hartletop Priory that
Lord Dumbello was by no means dissatisfied with his bargain.
His wife had been admired everywhere to the top of his bent.
All the world at Ems, and Baden, and at Nice, had been
stricken by the stately beauty of the young viscountess. And
then, too, her manner, style, and high dignity of demeanour
altogether supported the reverential feeling which her grace
and form at first inspired. She never derogated from her
husband’s honour by the fictitious liveliness of gossip, or
allowed any one to forget the peeress in the woman. Lord
Dumbello soon found that his reputation for discretion was
quite safe in her hands, and that there were no lessons as to
conduct in which it was necessary that he should give in-
struction. Before the winter was over she had equally won
the hearts of all the circle at Hartletop Priory. The duke was
there and de»Jared to the marchioness that Dumbello could
not possibly have done better, “Indeed, I do not think he
could,” said the happy mother. “ She sees all that she ought
to see, and nothing that she ought not.”
And then, in London, when the season came, all men sang
all manner of praises in her favour, and Lord Dumbello was
made^ aware that he was reckoned among the wisest of his age.
He had married a wife who managed everything for him, who
never troubled him, whom no woman disliked, and whom
every man admired. As for feast of reason and for flow of
soul, is it not a question whether any such flows and feasts
are necessary between a man and his wife ? How many men
can truly assert that they ever enjoy connubial flows of soul, or
that connubial feasts of reason are in their nature enjoyable ?
But a handsome woman at the head of your table, who know's
how to dress, and how to sit, and how to get in and out of her
carriage — who will not disgrace her lord by her ignorance, or
fret him by her coquetry, or disparage him by her talent — how
beautiful a thing it is ! For my own part I think that Griselda
Grautly was born to be the wife of a great English peer.
“After all, then,” said Miss Dunstable, speaking of Lady
Dumbello — slie was Mrs. Thorne at this lime — “ after all, there
IS some truth in what our quaint latter-day philosopher tells us
— * Great are ihy powers, O Silence 1 * ” The marriage of our
old friends Dr. Thorne and Miss Dunstable was the third on
the list, but that did not take place till the latter end of
September. The lawyers on such an occasion had no incon-
How They were All Married 465
siderable woi k to accomplish, and though the lady was not coy,
nor the gentleman slow, it was not found practicable to arrange
an earlier wedding. The ceremony was performed at St.
George's, Hanover Square, and was not brilliant in any special
degree. London at the time was empty, and the few persons
whose presence was actually necessary were imported from the
country for the occasion. The bride was given away by Dr.
Easym; n, and the two bridesmaids were ladies who had lived
with Miss Dunstable as companions. Young Mr. Gresham and
his wife were there, as was also Mrs. Harold Smith, who was not
at all prepared to drop her old friend in her new sphere of life.
“We shall call her Mis. Thorne instead of Miss Dunstable, and
I really think that will be all the difference," said Mrs. Harold
Smith. To Mrs. Harold Smith that probably was all the
difference, but it was not so to the persons most concerned.
According to the plaiA of life arranged between the doctor
and his wife she was siill to keep up her house in London,
remaining there during such period of the season as she might
choose, and receiving him when it might appear good to him to
visit her ; but he was to lie the master in the country. A
mansion at the Chace was to be built, and till such time as
that was completed, they would keep on the old house at
Greshamsbury. Into this, small as it was, Mrs. Thorne, —
in spite of her great wealth, — did not disdain to enter. But
subsequent circumstances changed their plans. It was found
that Mr. Sowerby could not or would not live at Chaldicotes ;
and, therefore, in the second year of their maniage, that place
was prepared for them. They are now well known to the whole
country as Dr. and Mrs. Thorne of Clialdicotes, — of Chaldi-
cotes, in distinction to the well-known Thornes of Ullathorne
in the eastern division. Here they live resjiected by their
neighbours, and on terms of alliance both with the Duke of
Omnium and with I^dy Lufton. “ Of course, those dear old
avenues will be very sad to me," said Mrs. Harold Smith,
when at the end of a Lordon season she was invited down to
Chaldicotes ; and as she spoke she put herTiandkei chief up to
her eyes.
“ Well, dear, what can I do ? ” said Mrs. Thorne. “ 1 can't
cut them down ; the doctar would not let me."
* “ Oh, no,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, sighing ; and in spite of
her feeling she did visit Chaldicotes.
But it was October before Lord Lufton was made a happy
man ; — that is, if the fruition of his happiness was a greater joy
than the anticipation of it. 1 will not say that the happiness
466 Framley Parsonage
of marriage is like the Dead Sea fruit — an apple which, when
eaten, turns to bitter ashes in the mouth. Such pretended
sarcasm would be very false. Nevertheless, is it not the fact
that the sweetest morsel of love’s feast has been eaten, that the
freshest, fairest blush of the flower has been snatched and has
passed away, when the ceremony at the altar has been performed,
and legal possession has been given ? There is an aroma of
love, an undeflnable delicacy of flavour, which escapes and is
gone before the church portal is left, vanishing with the maiden
name, and incompatible with the solid comfort appertaining to
the rank of wife. To love one’s own spouse, and to be loved
by her, is the ordinary lot of man, and is a duty exacted under
penalties. But to be allowed to love youth and beauty that is
not one’s own — to know that one is loved by a soft being who
still hangs cowering from the eye of the world as though her
love were all but illicit — can it be that a man is made happy
when a state of anticipation such as this is brought to a close ?
No ; when the husband walks back from the altar, he has
already swallowed the choicest dainties of his banquet. The
beef and pudding of married life are then in store for him ; —
or perhaps only the bread and cheese. Let him take care lest
hardly a crust remain — or perhaps not a crust. But before we
finish, let us go back for one moment to the dainties — to the
time before the beef and pudding were served — while Lucy was
still . at the parsonage, and Lord Lufton still staying at
Framley Court, He had come up one morning, as was now
frequently his wont, and, after a few minutes* conversation,
Mrs. Robarts had left the room — as not unfrequently on such
occasions was her wont. Lucy was working and continued
her work, and Lord Lufton for a moment or two sat looking at
her ; then he got up abruptly, and, standing before her, thus
questioned her : —
“Lucy,” said he.
“ Well, what of Lucy now ? Any particular fault this
morning ? ”
“ Yes, a most particular fault. When I asked you, here, in
this room, on this very spot, whether it was possible that you
should love me — why did you say that it was impossible ? ”
Lucy, instead of answering at the moment, looked down
upon the carpet, to see if his memory were as good as hers.
Yes ; he was standing on the exact spot where he had stood
before. No spot in all the world was more frequently clear
before her own eyes.
“ Do you remember that day, Lucy ? ” he said again.
How They were All Married 467
Yes, I remember it,” she said.
“ Why did you say it was impossible ? ”
“ Did I say impossible ? ” She knew that she had said sa
She remembered how she had waited till he had gone, and
that then, going to her own room, she had reproached herself
with the cowardice of the falseliood. She had lied to him
then ; and now — how was she punished fur it ?
“ W jll, I suppose it was possible,” she said.
“ But why did you say so when you knew it would make me
so miserable ? ”
“Miserable! nay, but you went away happy enough I I
thought I had never seen you look better satished.’*
“ l-.ucy ! ”
“ You had done your duty, and had had such a lucky
escape I What p^tonishes me is that you should have ever
come back again. But the pitcher may go to the well once
too often, Lord Lufton.”
“ But will you tell me the truth now ? ”
“ What truth ? ”
“That day, w’hen I came to you — did you love me at all
then?”
“We'll let bygones be bygones, if you [)lease.”
“ But 1 swear you shall toll me. It was such a cruel thing
to answer me as you did, unless you meant it. And yet you
never saw me again till aifter my mother had been over for you
to Mrs. Crawley's.”
“ It was absence that made me — care for you.”
“ Lucy, I swear I believe you loved me then.”
“Ludovic, some conjuror must have told you that.” She
was standing as she spoke, and, laughing at him, she held up
her hands and shook her head. But she was now in his
power, and he had his revenge — his revenge for her past false-
hood and her present joke. How could he be more happy
when he was made happj by having her all his own, than he
was now ? And in these days there again came up that
petition as to her riding— with very different result now than
on that former occasion. There were ever so many objections,
then. There was no habit, and Lucy was — or said that she
was — afraid; and then, what would Lady Lufton say? But
now Lady Lufton thought that it would be quite right ; only
were they quite sure about the horse ? Was Ludovic certain
that the horse had been ridden by a lady ? And Lady Mere-
dith's habits were dragged out as a matter of course, and one
of them chipped . and snipped and altered, without any
468 Framley Parsonage
compunction. And as for fear, there could be no bolder hors«
woman than Lucy Robarts. It was quite clear to all Framley tha
riding was the very thing for her. “ But I never shall be happy,
Ludovic, till you have got a horse properly suited for her/' said
Lady Lufton. And then, also, came the affair of her wedding
garments, of her trousseau — as to which I cannot boast that
she showed capacity or steadiness at all equal to that of Lady
Diimbello. Lady Lufton, however, thought it a very serious
matter; and as, in her opinion, Mrs. Robarts did not go about
it with sufficient energy, she took the matter mainly into her own
hands, striking Lucy dumb by her frowns and nods, deciding
on ever} thing herself, down to the very tags of the boot-ties.
“My dear, you really must allow me to know what I amabout;”
and I^dy Lufton patted her on the arm as she spoke. “ I did
it all for Justinia, and she never had reason to regret a single
thing that I bought. If you'll ask her, she'll tell you so.”
Lucy did not ask lier future sister-in-law, seeing that she had
no doubt whatever as to her future mother-in-law's judgment
on the articles in question. Only the money I And what
could she want with six dozen pocket handkerchiefs all aj
once ? There was no question of Lord Lufton's going out as
governor-general to India I But twelve dozen pocket-handker-
chiiifs had not been too many for Griselda's imagination. And
Lucy would sit alone in the drawing-room at Framley Court,
filling'her heart with thoughts of that evening when she had
first sat there. She had then resolved, painfully, with inward
tears, with groanings of her spirit, that she was wrongly placed
in being in that company. Griselda Grjiitly had been there,
quite at her ease, petted by Lady Lufton, admired by Lord
Lufton ; while she had retired out of sight, sore at heart,
because she felt herself to be no fit companion to those around
her. I'hen he had come to her, making matters almost worse
by talking to her, bringing the tears into iier eyes by his good-
nature, but still wounding her by the feeling that she could not
speak to him at her ease. But things were at a different pass
with her now. He had chosen hei — her out of all the world
and brought her there to share with him his own home, his
own honours, and all that he had to give. She was the appl.
of his eye, and the pride of his heart And the stern mothr^
of whom she had stood so much in awe, who at first hlf*
passed her by as a thing not to be noticed, and had then sene
out to her that she might be warned to keep herself aloof, now *
hardly knew in what way she might sufficiently show her love,
regard and solicitude.
How They were All Married 469
I must not say that Lucy was not proud in these moments —
kat her heart was not elated at these thoughts. Success does
iegct pride, as failure begets shame. But her pride was of
diat sort which is in no way disgraceful to either man or woman,
and was accompanied by pure true love, and a full resolution
to do her duty in that state of life to which it had pleased her
God tc call her. She did rejoice greatly to think that she
had been chosen, and not Griselda, Was it possible that
having loved she should not so rejoice, or that, rejoicing,
she should not be proud of her love ? They spent the whole
winter abroad, leaving the dowager Lady Lufton to her plans
and preparations for their reception at Frarnley Court ; and in
the following spring they appeared in London, and there set
up their staff. Lucy had some inner tremblings of the spirit,
and quiverings about heart, at thus beginning her duty be-
fore the great world, butbhe said little or nothing to her hus-
band on the matter. Other women had done as much before
her time, and by courage had gone through with it. It would
be dreadful enough, that position in her own house with lords
and ladies bowing to her, and stiff members of Parliament for
whom it would be necessary to make small talk ; but, neverthe-
less, it was to be endured. The time came, and she did endure
it. The time came, and before the first six weeks were over
she found that it was easy enough. The lords and ladies got
into their proper places and talked to her about ordinary matters
in a way that made no effort necessary, and the members of
Parliament were hardly more stiff than the clergymen she had
known in the neighbourhood of Frarnley. She had not been
long in town before she met Lady Dumbello. At this inter-
view also she had to oveicome some little inward emotion.
On the few occasions on vhich she had met Griselda Grantly
at Frarnley they had not much progressed in friendship, and
Lucy had felt that she hac: lx:en despised by the rich beauty,
^he also in her turn had disnked, il she had not despised, her
\val. But how would it be now? Lady Dumbello could
lardly despise her, and yet it did not seem possible that they
jvpuld meet as friends They did meet, and Lucy came for-
i^td with a pretty eageness to give her hand to Lady Lufton’s
p I favourite. Lady Dumbello smiled slightly — the same old
iiile which had come icross her face when they two had been
isi introduced in the ?ramley drawing-room ; the same smile
rithout the variation ofa line, — took the offered hand, muttered
word or two, and then receded. It was exactly as she had
lone before. She had never despised Lucy Robarts. She
470 Framley Parsonage
had accorded to the parson's sister the amount of cordir
with which she usually received her acquaintance ; and
she could do no more for the peer’s wife. Lady Dumbello
Lady Lufton have known each other ever since, and
occasionally visited at each other’s houses, but the intin
between them has never gone beyond this.
The dowager came up to town for about a month, and v
there was contented to fill a second place, She had no d(
to be the great lady in London. But then came the tr
period when they commenced their life together at Frai
Court. The elder lady formally renounced her place at the
of the table, — formally persisted in renouncing it though L
with tears implored her to resume it. She said also, with e'
formality— repeating her determination over and over agait
Mrs. Robarts with great energy, — ^that she would in no res
detract by interference of her own from the authority of
proper mistress of the house; but, nevertheless, it is wellkn.
to every one at Framley that old Lady Lufton still re*
paramount in the parish.
“ Yes, my dear ; the big room looking into the little g?
to the south was always the nursery ; and if you ask my ac
it rill still remain so. B at, of course, any room you please—
And the big room looking into the little garden to the sc
is stil] the nursery at Fiamiey Court.
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